


Pale Before the Fall

by oneinspats



Series: A Near Run Thing [1]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE France RPF, French History RPF, Historical RPF, Napoleonic Era, Napoleonic Era RPF, british history RPF
Genre: 2spoopy4u, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, faux gothic, historical fiction - Freeform, magical realism but not but IDK, playing with history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Waterloo, through a cunning lawyer and some finagling, Bonaparte manages to end up in England instead of St Helena for his final exile. </p><p>Of course things don't stay quiet. There's an old murder. A stodgy Duke newly returned from France. A disintegrating marriage. And a couple of ghosts to top it all off. </p><p>(and full of pretentious chapter titles and what not)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Gordon's Horse

June 1815.

What is memory? Faulty, mostly. A mechanism for remembering, recreating, refashioning, the past. A damnable thing.

How does one choose to remember? Even current, happening-just-a-moment-ago events become changed. Altered. They are a kaleidoscope of instances loosely stitched together into something resembling a cohesive narrative and, as any good writer knows, narratives can be changed.

Naturally, this leads to the question of truth in memory and we are not here for truth.

 

A canon ball rips through Uxbridge’s leg in the year of our Lord 1815. Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, laughs.

He ought not too, he knows. He cannot help it, though. Cannot for the life of him – it bubbles out and is shrill, a little mad, like the damned Corsican who he cannot see through smoke and battle cries and low, grey skies. He mouth shuts, abruptly, because this is Uxbridge, after all, and even if the man is damnable he’s still family and what can you do about that?

Later, someone will record the incident thusly:

Uxbridge: I’ve lost my leg!  
Wellington: By God sir, so you have!

Arthur will wonder who first recorded the incident in such a farcical fashion and will think that whoever it is ought to write for the West End. But not yet. Not now. Now, he is at his desk trying to not remember the day but knowing that he had best remember it and make a record of it while it is still fresh. He can smell grapeshot. A whiff of grapeshot. He laughs.

 

Everything is mud. Mud and mud and mud and mud. People in the future will write thesis about this. Old Boney undone by the most base of elements: Earth. Or, perhaps, by the most ancient of sins: Hubris. Arthur stares at the paper before him. He has written this to his brother but he does not think that Richard will be appreciative of it. New page. Stop. Fix the pen nib. Oh God, steady your hands man! You have been a soldier for years and years and your hands ought not to shake. He hasn’t felt like this since Assaye. Assaye was what? Ten years ago? No, longer, twelve years ago and he had been in India and where had Napoleon been? He can’t remember. His hands shouldn’t be shaking.

 

Creevey walks in with wine and something resembling bread. For you, sir. You look shattered, sir. Thought you should eat, sir.

‘It’s a damned business,’ Arthur mutters. ‘Thirty thousand men, Creevey.’

‘That many sir?’

Dr. Hume had come in only a few hours before and had said Gordon was gone. And others, of course. But not Uxbridge. Uxbridge, of course, was fine.

Arthur had then drank at a too empty table which he _has_ done before but never one that was so final.

‘Do you think it’s over, sir?’

‘Creevey.’

‘Sir?’

‘I wrote to Gordon’s brother about his horse. About his _horse._ ’.

Creevey, feeling uncertain, says nothing.

They open the bottle of wine but it isn’t enough and so they hunt about for whiskey or that wretched Russian _eau de vie_ which is mixed with tea.

 

(In the months to follow he will dream of death. Of hands reaching for him, of men he had once known crawling out of their graves and pressing their cold, greying hands to his skin. Why did you live whilst we died? Why did you see the sun the next day while we went down into darkness? Creatures with backwards knees and no eyes crawl from their gaping wounds, their shattered limbs. One smiles at him. Arthur will think, I am not the only one to have seen this one. Other have seen it too.

When he will wake it will be to a putrid smell that vanishes soon after. When he will wake he will want to wretch and vomit but will tell himself that he cannot afford to. That he cannot afford to have these dreams. To be like this. That there is too much to do, too much to see to. When he will wake he will tell himself to forget.)

 

Later, he writes to Richard because Richard deserves a letter being the oldest of the Wellesley siblings. He wants to write about the mud and the crops and this barn that was vital and a million and one things that Richard will not care about because it is Richard.

He remembers India with Richard. There had been this quiet, intense, arrogant, queer little Scottish botanist running about named Buchanan. He thinks, I wonder what happened to him. I wonder if he is still alive or maybe malaria got him. Or maybe he died. Wasn’t he going to Tibet at some point? There is a mountain over there that no man can climb. You die if you get to the top. That is perhaps an apt metaphor for the moment.

He writes, _It was the most desperate business I was ever in._

He says he was near beat. He marks the behaviour of his men. He says ‘we have given Napoleon his death blow’ and signs his name. As he folds it he tells Creevey, ‘Thank God, sir, that this is the last I will ever see of the damned Corsican fellow.’

  

Later, not quite a month later though it could have been years, he tells his government that France is friendly and moderation is key and by the name of Christ can you please tell Mercer and Blucher to stop being positive _ninnies_ about it all?

He writes to his brother, ‘Our quarrel was with Napoleon. Napoleon and his loyalists. Not France. This isn’t the Middle Ages, I do beg pardon. And if they want to execute the blasted man the sovereigns should appoint an executioner who should _not_ be me’.

Richard writes in reply, ‘my dear Arthur, you have always been hot headed in your own way. I trust the anger is justified. But you would know more than I, having been there and seen it all first hand. Tell me, what _are_ we going to do with the little fellow?’

 

Later. Months. Arthur finds himself out of Paris and in London, if only to hear English spoken with a proper accent. Limehouse was acceptable to French.

 

Later. Months. And Arthur wants to curse the God that ever let a man named Anthony Mackenrot become a lawyer. Only a man as crazy as Mackenrot would devise a scheme to have the Emperor touch English shore. To Harriet Arbuthnot he asks, Did he know what he was doing with allowing Napoleon off the _Bellrophone?_ Now we have to allow the bastard a trial and while I am not, at heart, against such a proposition — well, he charmed himself off Elba. I’ve no doubt he’ll trick himself into something good.

The something good turns out to be permanent exile in the stifling, claustrophobic midlands of England. Reportedly the Emperor (now known merely as General) said, The bane of my existence has always been islands.

When Harriet asks Arthur if he’ll think of seeing the man he snarls, Never! Madam! Never! I swear to you that I will never be on good terms with a man such as Napoleon Bonaparte.


	2. Prologue: I Mazzeri

April, 1817.

Entrails have long been a means of recording future events. Even in this modern, enlightened period there remain those who believe in reading the future of the living through the remains of the dead. On Corsica they are dream hunters and are associated with death. They are called _I Mazzeri._

 

Grand Marshall Henri Bertrand enters and remains stage center with Napoleon Bonaparte of various titles most recently, mere _General._ Bertrand considers himself a rational, educated man, although Fanny Betrand is not sure about his decision to follow their Emperor into exile. Though, it must be said, England is better than the other rumoured options for at least there are plentiful educational and business opportunities for their children which could not be said for _some_ of the options that had been bandied about. So, perhaps while not a _rational_ decision it was at least a lucky one. And, she knows, the Emperor has always said that the best generals are intelligent and, most importantly, they are lucky.

But Bertrand, oh Henri, he is too good a man to let Napoleon go into exile with only Montholon as company. Too loyal a man to abandon his general, even when all others had except the vultures. His regard, she considered something worth cherishing when earned. His faith and friendship were things to be held dear, when bestowed.

The Grand Marshall plays the Queen of Spades. The former Emperor sighs.

‘That trick is yours, Henri.’

Cards are picked up. Drinks are refilled. It is a cool, moonless night in the empty countryside of Northamptonshire, called Norants by the locals. Bertrand’s English, already quite good, is beginning to pick up local flavours influenced most heavily by the stable lad who tends the court-in-exile’s horses and the emperor’s favourite gardener. A Welsh man who speaks no French gardening for a man who speaks no English. Bertrand doesn’t even begin to understand how they make it work.

‘I’m thinking bees next.’

‘Bees, sire?’

'Bees. Only a few hives, by the river perhaps. I’ll have to see what the gardener thinks.’

‘He’ll be overjoyed. He’s wanted bees since he started working here.’

‘Has he? I always knew he was a good man. Ah, this hand is mine.’

From open windows the sounds of someone at the pianoforte can be heard.

‘And what about you, Henri? Any new projects for you?’

Bertrand contemplates his cards, finally laying down the best option which is only a sad two of diamonds. As he does the air shifts, a breeze picks up, both men shift in their seats.

‘Perhaps a translation project. You’ve got this one, too. And I am thinking of a French translation of _The Occult History of Britain_ Lady Preston-Wright has tucked away in her library. If I can only persuade her to lend it me.’

The game ends and the deck shuffled. It is during mid-deal that Napoleon stops abruptly. He stares over Bertrand’s shoulder and his face is pale for a moment. The pale Bertrand has seen only once or twice before. The emperor recovers himself, shakes his head. Says that it was nothing, just that he had thought he had seen something but is certain that it is nothing at all.

‘An animal, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps.’

When they retire indoors curtains are drawn and the fire stoked. Fanny plays a piece on the pianoforte of her own composition while the others read. Bertrand, with his back to the windows, feels as if they are all being watched. As if something has the ability to peer through glass and stone and fabric into the very room they are in. Involuntarily the hairs on the back of his head raise. He shivers. Turns a page. Sternly tells himself to be still, to be calm, for there is most likely no one there for where are they but in the middle of no where and are last year’s news.

He considers himself a rational man but cannot help himself and looks out the windows before bed.

It is dark outside.

Empty, yes, and claustrophobic.

He stares at the tree line and tells himself there is no one there. There _cannot_ be anyone there and even if there was, this is a house full of old soldiers and servants. They are hardly unprotected. Even Montholon can do damage with a bayonet if he needs to.

Turning away he goes to bed and pulls Fannie close, he whispers old war songs into her skin and tries to remember his childhood village. He cannot. Instead, he remembers Paris and falls asleep to the sound of horse hooves on cobbles.

That night he dreams of a dead boar being pulled from the river by the Emperor. As it is turned over its entrails are spilling out and Bertrand can see the image of a man he has never met but wakes feeling certain he will know his face anywhere.

 

 

 

_Here didn’t I fall; and here my hunter stands, sign’d in thy spoil, and crimsoned in thy lethe._


	3. Gog and Magog of Northamptonshire

**1818**

In Stratfield Saye Harriet Arbuthnot waits in the parlour for Kitty to finish giving her apologies. The woman is dapper looking and plain but Harriet is of a mind to like her today, if only to make things easier for the woman.

‘I just don’t know where he is. He does this, you know,’ Kitty explains with her hands in her lap. She’s wearing beige. Harriet thinks she could disappear into the settee if she had mind to. ‘Goes off with Creevey or Somerset or some other. They hunt, you know. I’m really very sorry.’

‘It’s quite all right.’ The other woman pats Kitty’s hand. ‘I know how husbands are. Flying left and right with no thought that they might be needed at home. Or, heaven forbid, required to take a break from themselves.’

‘Arthur’s not that terrible. He is simply…busy.’

‘He’s selfish, but he’s a great man so allowed to be. I do wonder why we waste so much time with men. But, I suppose he must be worth it in the end.’

‘I think he is.’

Harriet eyes Kitty and finds a clear face. She sometimes wonders if there is more beneath the calm eyes and forever-there smile. The two are the most ill suited couple Harriet has ever known but they both refuse to do anything about it. Not that Harriet would encourage such a thing. Think of Arthur's politics, she has been telling herself. Think of their boys. 

‘He’s very charming,’ Kitty goes on. ‘And dashing, especially in his uniform. I mean, he was  _always_ dashing. Back in Ireland, I remember our first dance. It was the dinner set and then he asked for my hand at the last turn of the evening. Dashing. Even when my brother refused to see it. But now he’s a duke. How that sounds. Duchess. I’m still not over the title.’ A servant brings in tea and sets it between the ladies. ‘But I am rude, how is dear Charles?’

‘Fine. Trundling along. He’s a dear, you know. A brick, a capital fellow.’

There is silence. Harriet ponders the tea pot and silently curses Arthur for going off shooting. She thinks, It’s not like he  _can._ She reasons he would fit in well with her cousins the Preston-Wrights. George couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at midday. Let alone anything small and moving. She put it down to an army training seeing as most young men were taught the philosophy of “aim in the direction of the enemy and you’re bound to hit  _something_ ”.

‘He winged the gamekeeper last week,’ Kitty’s voice brings her back to the present. ‘The man said, ‘my lord you have shot me’ and Arthur replied, ‘well so I have’.’ She smiles. Harriet smiles back. Tea is poured, finally. There is time enough for all the things Harriet wants to say so she holds back. 

‘Should be an honour,’ Harriet murmurs over the tea. ‘Being shot by the Lord of Waterloo.’

‘Seems so long ago.’

‘Three years is nothing to scoff at. Of course things aren’t quite what he had hoped. What with Bonaparte being let alone in the countryside. Arthur told me that he had high hopes of a more discreet island. One with a moat and poisonous snakes hiding in the grass. Preferably well stocked with carnivorous animals and cannibalistic natives.’

‘Oh, Arthur can be  _so_  –‘

‘Amusing? Over the top? Quite. Instead – this,’ Harriet waves her hand. ‘A trial.  _Two_ trials. Though I suppose being only a witness at one hardly counts. Nevertheless. And now what is the great emperor up to? Raising sheep, last I heard. Bees will be next.’

‘Arthur says we should only refer to him as General Bonaparte. That the government was going to issue a bill to that effect.’

‘Oh he would. Your husband’s a sulker, but a good man, despite all that. I suppose I’m cruel, at times, but I like to think I’m a good woman, despite all that.’

A moment. A beat. It's very fleeting. It's very long. 

‘Have you read the latest novel by that anonymous woman?’ Harriet tries. ‘The author of  _Pride and Prejudice,_ ’ she adds helpfully. ‘I heard it was  _scathing.’_ She gives a wink and an approximation of a knowing look. Kitty shakes her head, Oh no, she says. I haven’t. I haven’t heard of it. It can’t be all that proper.

‘I do believe that’s the point. Well, my dear, I trust you have been well.’

‘Well enough. They boys are in school, now. I finally have some free time to myself.’

Harriet doesn’t think, That’s all you’ve ever had.

‘Excellent, a woman always needs some time for herself. People get this idea that we’re so selfless and caring and there for everyone and the world.  _I_ think we only are because  _someone_ has to be or else it’d all fall apart. Now, what do you plan to do with your free time?’

‘You know, I hadn’t thought much on it.’

‘There are some new books I could recommend, if you’d like.’

‘I’m not sure-‘ an uneasy look. ‘What kind of books?’

‘Saucy. Or not, if you would prefer. I am very proper.’

Kitty starts and Harriet thinks she might finally get a reaction from the woman. A splutter of disbelief. A look of “well you wouldn’t carry on with my husband the way you do if you were”. Instead, a moment of regard between the two women before Kitty settles back down. Harriet has admitted that there are aspects of Kitty she admires. Namely, her forbearance.

‘I was thinking of a new gown. Maybe a wig.’ An absent touch to her hair. It’s brown and in piles atop her head but there are wisps of grey about the temples. A few strands freeing themselves from clasps.

‘I’m sure that’s just the thing.’

Kitty purses her lips as she sets her cup down. Her hands are folded in her lap and she looks delicate. An intricate work of fading lace and silk. She reminds Harriet of old ballrooms – the grandeur worn and gone and slipping from memory. She wants to be the woman’s friend, if only out of kindness to both Arthur and Kitty, but she fears that no Wellesley is ever destined to have friends.

‘Harriet, just why are you here?’

‘To speak to your husband, my dear.’

Kitty starts again. Harriet wants to take her by her shoulders and shake her. She wants to ask her to react with something other than slightly aggrieved nervousness. She wants to sit the woman down and explain why Arthur keeps his bedroom on the other side of the house in, quite literally, the farthest room from her. And it has nothing to do with other women, no matter what Kitty may think. Or it didn’t originally. Harriet can’t speak to that  _now_ no matter what people think about her and Arthur.

With Kitty, her nervousness comes out as simpering with Arthur, caustic with Harriet, overbearing with her children. The forever aggrieved wife asks, ‘And what could you possibly need to see him about?’

‘I just want to make a suggestion to him. Something Charles brought to my attention. He seems to be under stress, his grace, and I think, or rather Charles and I think that a holiday would not be amiss. A trip to the countryside. Away,’ she glances about and alters her track. ‘It’s the hunting season, we’ll make a party of it. You, me, our charming husbands and their silly friends. Castlereagh, Somerset, and others. I’ll rustle up some ladies so we shan’t be outnumbered. A holiday is what we all need. And not just weekends out here to Stratfield, though it is lovely _.’_

 _‘_ We’re thinking of tearing it down,’ Kitty murmurs it as she looks over the older woman's shoulder, out the window. She is a portrait - an uncomfortable one. Harriet looks away.

‘I think that would be a shame. But you should do what you think is best. Come up to Woodford House for a week or two. The cabinet can spare our husbands, the city can spare us.’

Harriet waits. Kitty fidgets with her hair and smooth her skirts.

‘That sounds like just the thing,’ exhaled at last. ‘I’m sure Arthur will be keen.’

They exchange smiles.

There is silence.

They drink cold tea.

  
  


 

 

Woodford House is situated in Northamptonshire and follows the traditional lines of a mansion. The park is quant, if old fashioned and Harriet quickly apologizes for both it and her husband’s absence.

‘Charles just could not get away from the city. He’s due to arrive at the week end, though. So we’ll make a full party for Saturday evening.’ She’s fishing through envelopes as the carriages jostles along. Arthur stares dismally out the window. Kitty desperately attempts to hold in her stomach. After a minute Harriet says, rather loudly, ‘I must stop for a moment. I hope you don’t mind.’

Doors open to country road, a few bushes, and with a small noise Kitty escapes from the carriage. Arthur scowls. Ignoring him Harriet climbs down and trails after Kitty, finding her by a small tree she rubs her back. 'Kitty, dear, it’s quite all right. Carriage travel agrees with positively no one. And if it does, I wouldn’t trust them as far as Kettering.’

Kitty, too occupied to reply, shudders. Harriet looks away. Clouds are on the horizon. Reaching into her purse she hands over a handkerchief. Does Kitty think she can manage the rest of the way? It is only a little while yet. Kitty laughs, What choice do I have? And besides, there is nothing for it but a cold compress and a glass of wine to steady the nerves – but those will have to wait. They return to the carriage. Harriet to her letters, Kitty to closed eyes and pinched face. 

To lighten the mood Harriet declares, I shall read aloud with embellishment and passion. 

‘Here’s one from Castlereagh! Dear Robert, he writes to say that the hats this season are the worst he’s seen in parliament in his life, and he swears by the blood of most holy Christ. Hm, twice. My, my. Oh, angry at the radicals. As usual. Now here’s something interesting, more details on his Congress System.’ Her gaze flicks up to meet Arthur’s. ‘You’ll have to give me your treatise on that later. Oh,’ she reads over a new piece. ‘From Charles, how it caught up to us – never mind. Hmm, mhm. Oh nothing interesting. Though he says he has news when he gets here on Saturday but nothing that can be written. And of course his condolences and commiserations to my cousin.’

‘Your cousin?’

‘Oh yes, _her_  cousin, John, passed away last year. Quite suddenly, I hear. In the middle of a parlour game of some sort. Terribly shocking. Charles and I couldn’t make the funeral, unfortunately.’

This is mulled over before the duke asks, Is it all right for them to be receiving guests? Has it been full time?’

‘Yes. And Georgiana  _has_  always been a stickler for that. She shan’t have invited us if it wasn’t seemly. I’m curious as to the local gossip about it all. Woodford is small. Very small. With Kettering nearby being the industry of the area – well, it stands to reason all the young people go there to make something of themselves so all that is left is a bit of a matriarchy, beware Arthur,’ a laughing grin. ‘You’ll be staked out as the only eligible dance material for miles around.’

‘No fear, so long as the ladies don’t mind a few bruised feet.’

Harriet laughs, nodding along, Oh yes, ah, hm. She turns coy, glances at the sleeping form of Kitty before forming a wicked smile. ‘And there’s someone there who will be just dying to meet you.’

The duke frowns, ‘You can’t say such things without revealing who, madam.’

‘Wait and see. You’ll find out soon enough.’ Her expression becomes arch and she pats his hand, ‘though I’m surprised you haven’t realised who. I’m terribly excited, it’ll be  _such_ fun.’

He gives an un-gentleman like snort and takes her hand for a brief moment. ‘When you say it like that, Harriet, dear, I fear for myself more than anything else.’

 

 

Harriet, being both kind and cruel, puts the Wellesley’s in separate bedrooms but right next door to each other. Arthur doesn’t say anything about it but he thinks it cheeky. He explains that hearing her sermons on the subject of his marriage is enough, can a man not have peace?

‘You do,’ Harriet replies as she pulls on her riding gloves. ‘Too much. It’d be easier if you tried being civil to her.’

‘I  _have._ ’

‘Poor Kitty.’

Arthur pulls a face that says, What about me? And Harriet laughs. She says, as they mount their horses, Come, let us forget all of that for the afternoon. I must show you Northants at its finest. We will take tea with Georgiana then ride back and make biting social commentary. We will make formal social rounds tomorrow.

‘Does visiting your cousin not count as a social round?’

‘You’ll understand when you meet Georgiana. She was once the liveliest woman of my acquaintance. Sharp, with good sense and breeding. She still has the breeding but has lost all else. Took ill one year up north, recovered physically but it seems to have taken a toll on her.’

Feeling the need to say something Arthur makes a murmur of apologies. Something about it being a tragedy.

‘And then this tragedy of her cousin, John. The doctor declared he died of stroke. It was quite shocking. Best not to mention it too much.’

‘Of course.’

‘At least not directly.’

‘I quite understand.’

She smiles, pats his arm, ‘I’m glad you do, Arthur. We have always been able to understand one other, I’d like to think we always will.’

The air around them is cool and the countryside quiet. It is flat and far reaching. Grey and brown and green and above them is sky. There is no water, save for a small river, no thundering sea or wide lake. Nothing to inspire flight or hope or dreams of grandeur. In short, Arthur thinks it plain but he sees that Harriet appears to enjoy it so tries his best to be charming about it. He takes her hand as she dismounts and tells her that the day has been beautiful. Turning, he takes notice of a woman in black watching from a window. She reminds him of Botticelli and he wonders that the famous artist got the painting all wrong - Envy is not a man in black but a woman. He lets Harriet take his arm and thinks that there is something wrong here. But he cannot figure  _what._

 

 

There is an old story about the creation of London. Told by Geoffrey of Monmouth, Arthur isn’t sure where the man got the idea. He has read through the bible and there is nothing linking Gog and Magog to giants but to giants they are connected.

Brutus, the Trojan Brutus, not the Ceasar-slayer, arrived in England with a band of stragglers. They were wind beaten and exhausted. Skin salted and baked from months on sea. Feet hardened, hands warped and marred. They were monsters themselves and when they came to this forgotten island they found it populated with monsters. Giants. Creatures without God or Creed.

‘The story breaks into two, here,’ Georgiana explains. ‘There is a giant Goemagot who had to fight the champion of the remaining Trojans, Corineus who vanquishes the beast by casting him off cliffs and on to the rocks below. His body shattered by stone and wave.

The second is that they were two giants captured by Brutus. He broke them, destroyed their will and kept them chained to the doors of his palace in London. They were his porters. He was their master.’

‘And now they rest in front of the Guildhall,’ Arthur adds after an acceptable silence. He is drinking tea and finding the leaves old and without flavour. He catches Harriet discreetly adding more sugar to her cup. ‘Though, only the masses think that it’s Gog and Magog. It’s truly Gogmagog and the Trojan hero Corineus.’

Georgiana nods. She is a middling aged woman of middle height and middle beauty. She is called handsome by her family, plain by her friends, and nothing by those who dislike her. The Queen once remarked that she had nothing to say about Georgiana Preston-Wright because there was, quite literally,  _nothing_ to be said.

Arthur doesn’t think her so bad as all of that. She picks up another book and opens it to a well worn page marked with ribbon.

‘Our new neighbours lent this to me.’ Her face a curious expression of pride and smugness. ‘For all his faults, of course now we have an expert on them,’ she glanced at Arthur with an unreadable expression. ‘I must give credit to his reading tastes. He has an extensive library for one forced to remove from his country in such great haste. Of course he orders in new books regularly.’

Arthur finds himself frowning. The page is in French. He thinks, Oh good God, _no_. He thinks, I will  _not_ be in the same room as  _him._

‘He’s charming.’ Georgiana continues. ‘Though I had always heard him described as brutish and uncivil I find him quite the opposite.’ A pause, a mark of Harriet’s barely suppressed amusement, the duke’s dark looks. She purses her lips. ‘Of course we’re all very proper here in Woodford. It’s always General. We’re polite but not  _friendly_.’ Idly she turns a page of the book. ‘The others in the French party are quite charming as well. There’s the Comte de Montholon and his wife and General Bertrand and  _his_ wife and their children. Woodford is full of living legends, it seems.’

‘Is he still raising sheep?’ Harriet asks with a blithe smile at Arthur’s increasingly dour face.

‘I hear he wants to start a garden. He says it’s “keeping busy” that is important. Something he learned while on Elba.’ Georgiana places the book off to the side. ‘Come to dinner in two days time. It will be the first public dinner since poor John.’

Harriet accepts for the entire party. She makes a few discreet inquiries about the other guests and wonders how Arthur will behave if seated across from  _General_  Bonaparte.

On their way home she laughs and declares, ‘Dinner tables can very well be battlefields. Enough volleys are certainly thrown.’

‘If they are, they’re better than the fields I’ve seen. No death.’

‘Well,’ she laughs then covers her mouth. ‘That was rude. My apologies.’ But Arthur is laughing too and says it’s all right. No death, ideally, he amends. The sun is setting and the land is starting to look a little more friendly, a little more warm and welcoming.

That night Arthur takes a bath and reads dispatches from London. He wanders through the house like a lost shade and stares at an old violin left out in the music room. He wonders if the Emperor-General will have changed. He wonders what the man will be like up close, having never formally met him. He decides he will behave himself, if only for Harriet’s sake. But he has no hope of enjoying himself.

He settles into bed and tries to sleep. He can hear Kitty softly snoring in the next room. There is moonlight scattered across his pillow. When he sleeps he dreams of Waterloo.

When he wakes he is sweating and there is the scent of death in the air.

 

 

The two days before The Dinner, as the event is soon labelled at Woodford House, Arthur is restless. He takes himself for a ride every morning with the hope of distracting himself. He allows Harriet to cart both he and Kitty here and there to meet the neighbours.

‘This is Mrs Topsom. Mrs Topsom, my good friends the Duke and Duchess of Wellington, Sir Arthur Wellesley and Lady Katherine Wellesley.’

The woman, to Harriet’s embarrassment, is close to tittering over in excitement. She brings them all in and gives them tea. Manages to spill some on Arthur’s trousers and Harriet’s dress. Kitty comes to her rescue and takes over the tea serving, much to the relief of the party.

‘I hear you were with my cousin when poor John…’ Harriet begins as she bites into a biscuit. Mrs Topsom gushes, Oh yes, I was.

‘A tragedy,’ the older woman is warming up to the story. ‘This was last year around this time,’ she explains to Arthur and Kitty. ‘Lady Preston-Wright holds a regular summer dinner for her friends and last year was no different. We were all there. Myself, Lady Rutherford and her sons Arnold and Harry,’ Mrs Topsom is counting off her fingers. ‘The French party minus the Emperor, oh I’m sorry, the  _General._  He’s a difficult man. Very cagey. I was glad to find that just the Bertrand’s and Montholon’s had come. Fannie, Madame Bertrand, is such a sweet woman. John, of course. Oh and Dr Phillips and his wife Mary.’

‘Big party,’ Arthur says for something to say. Harriet looks at him and seems to say, You can do better than that.

‘Lady Preston-Wright is very generous. Abelle Hall is beautiful this time of year and she  _does_ love to show it off. Who can blame her? Anyway. We all gathered at half six. Dinner was at seven. Venison, fish, fresh vegetables, mature mushrooms, excellent wine. Desert was to be taken in the parlour along with coffee and music.

After a while someone, and I can’t remember who, suggested a parlour game. Oh, it was Mary Phillips. Yes, I quite remember now. She was wearing an atrocious gown that night. She is one of those ladies who believe that economy is fashionable.’

Harriet doesn’t look at Arthur or Kitty. She decides that there is no need to relive the argument about Lady Wellesley’s allowance.

‘We began playing that game – the mystery murderer game. One person is the murderer and the rest are townsfolk and you must catch them before the time is up.’

‘Oh yes,’ Kitty enthuses. ‘I do love that game.’

‘We were on the second round when it happened. John had just stood up to name who he thought the murderer to be when he died.’

‘Just like that?’ Kitty asks.

‘Well,’ a gruesome smile. ‘He sort of twitched, it looked like he was having a fit. He foamed at the mouth and Dr Phillips was at his side in an instant, of course, as well as General Bertrand who apparently knows something of fits.’

‘The General gets them,’ Arthur murmurs. The others look startled. ‘I thought that was well known.’

‘Well,’ huffs Mrs Topsom. ‘ _I_ didn’t know that.’

‘Arthur knows all sorts of things,’ Harriet says. ‘And he assumes everyone knows them as well. He has this assumption doubled when it’s a rare bit of information that he has been hoarding. But do go on.’

‘So the Doctor and General Bertrand are with John and I’m holding dear Georgiana’s hand when suddenly Dr Phillips stands up and declares that he has died. Most likely of a failure of the heart. And not yet thirty two!’

The group takes a moment to contemplate the story. Mrs Topsom’s serving girl arrives with a new pot of tea. Arthur thinks, This tea is better than Lady Preston-Wright’s.

‘Well, naturally the evening ended at that.’ Mrs Topsom fidgets with her cup. ‘But I hear that Georgiana is planning to host a dinner again this year. At the end of the week, I believe. Very brave of her. Though I can’t help but think it a bit soon.’

Harriet raises an eyebrow. ‘Soon? It was a year ago. And only a cousin. A second cousin at that.’

Kitty looks shocked. Arthur snorts and tells her to not be so horrid about it.

‘It’s true.’ She continues stoutly. ‘And she never liked him. Though I wonder if the General will deign to come to this one after the events of last year. If only out of prurient curiosity. Or are Emperor’s above such a thing?’

Mrs Topsom says she’s not sure. But what she is sure is that there have been whispers that it wasn't natural at all. That it was  _poison._ And who didn’t show up at the dinner? Who is new to the town? Who was in a particular unspoken war with John Preston-Wright over some perceived slight? She says that she’s not saying anything. But it’s just something to think about.

 

Later, Arthur says on their way home. ‘I don’t like the general any more than the next man, but  _assuming_ he didn’t like John Preston-Wright, he wouldn’t be silly enough to kill the man. Give him  _some_ credit for being marginally intelligent.’

‘Aw,’ Harriet pats his knee. ‘That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said about Bonaparte. I’ll make sure he receives the compliment tomorrow night.’

‘Harriet, you  _wouldn’t_.’

She just smiles. Arthur is suspicious. Kitty falls asleep.


	4. The First Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of awkward dinners. Ghost stories. And the stealing of titles.

It ends up being an affair to get everyone out of the house in a timely manner. Harriet finds herself forwarder than the others and spends an hour reassuring Kitty about her dress and yelling at Arthur to stop fidgeting with his uniform or so help her!

She takes a spot of tea in the entrance hall and thinks that she and Charles should just drop the Wellesley’s all together. Their life would be quieter and filled with fewer awkward silences and stubborn, childish inter-spousal conflicts. But then, she knows, Arthur is such a dear when he wants to be. And Kitty _is_ all right. So sweet and so misguidedly well meaning that it was impossible to hate her.

She says to a portrait of Charles’ grandfather, ‘I do hope nothing too terrible comes of all of this. And don’t regard me in such a way, sir. I know what people say about my relationship with the Duke and it’s all for not. Don’t think I would treat your grandson in such a fashion. I do have _some_ pride.’

She finishes her cup and leaves it by a Dutch vase. She _has_ tried to convince Charles to get a cat, if only to take care of, by accident, some of the more unfortunate pieces of “art” that have accumulated in Woodford House. The vase is one such example. Both she and Charles have a tendency to place it in increasingly precarious positions throughout the house but to no avail. Her favourite Blue Shepherdess sculpture, newly purchased and safe in the centre of a large table is, of course, the one piece that is somehow broken. The ugly Dutch vase lives on.

‘You may now cease pining,’ Arthur says as he enters the room. ‘I have arrived.’ He gives her a cheeky grin and bows with full flourish.

‘It’s not too soon. Between you and Kitty we will never be on time for anything.’ She fixes his neck cloth and nods. ‘You’re looking dashing, tonight. I do forget what a uniform can do for a figure.’

He murmurs, ‘you should have married a military man, then.’

‘I would have. Had I known any at the time. But Charles is handsome and I won’t hear a word against him. More importantly, he’s kind.’ An afterthought, ‘and less likely to be shot by an errant bullet for King and Country.’

They step apart as a servant enters and Harriet thinks, _This_ is why everyone is convinced of _those_ rumours. Bad timing.

‘He’s due to arrive on Saturday?’

‘Oh yes, I'm looking forward to it. He sends his regards, by the way. I received a letter from him this morning. He says he’ll bring Robert up as well. Force the man to take a break for once. He really does work too hard.’

‘Old Castlereagh? I suppose.’ He laughs. ‘Though you didn’t see him in Vienna.’ He hums and moves about. Fingers brushing imagined dust from table tops and portrait frames. They light over the vase. Harriet closes her eyes. Nothing. She wants to curse the duke for being too careful and not nearly clumsy enough.

‘I heard from Dr Phillips this morning that old Boney can’t abide cats,’ Arthur says suddenly. He spins on his heels and holds his hands open, palms up as if displaying the fact physically between them. ‘I think we should purchase ten of them and give them to him.’

She tuts and taps his chest with her fan. ‘You will do no such thing. You two have already fought a war. I _forbid_ you to start one here. You’re on Holiday. Not a campaign. I’m going to rope Kitty into this deal as well. And Charles. No antagonising your imagined enemy.’

‘Imagined!’

‘Yes! It’s rather one sided, your enmity. _He_ says that you’re all right. If a bit brash. Very English, but I suppose that is to be expected. I heard that once he said he would sooner trust you with one hundred thousand men than any of his marshals.’

‘Even Soult?’

‘Even Soult.’

‘What about Duroc?’

‘I wouldn’t push your luck.’

Arthur digests this. He turns it over. This way and that and is immersed so when Kitty walks in, self-conscious and with too much rouge, he neglects to make a comment. Harriet makes note of this. She reminds herself to bring up the Emperor-General anytime Kitty is present. It occupies the husband, keeps the wife safe.

‘When did he say this?’ The duke asks as they arrange themselves in the carriage.

‘Which bit?’

‘The trusting me with one hundred thousand of his men.’

She flicks open her fan and smiles over the top of it, ‘a few years ago. Elba, I think. It was an offhand comment but I imagine you can take him to have meant it at the time. Ask him now. But not at dinner, for Georgiana’s sake. Later, I want to watch him back paddle.’

‘And the other comment? About my being all right if a bit brash and English. What does that even mean, I wonder.’

‘Couldn’t say. And he said that on the _Bellerophone._ Maitland mentioned it to Robert who passed it on to Charles.’

Arthurs hums contentedly about the reliability of the political grapevine. Harriet asks as they pull up to Abelle Hall, And you, Arthur? Would you trust him with one hundred thousand of your men?

‘As a leader? Yes. To not march on Paris? No.’

Harriet is gleeful, ‘That’s the second nicest thing I’ve heard you say in as many days. We will make you fast friends yet!’

Kitty grabs her hand, laughing, ‘please no. I couldn’t handle _two_ of them about.’

 

 

 

Before dinner may commence introductions are to be completed. Arthur stays by Harriet and Kitty, for once releaved at his wife's tendency to speak more than she ought. Across the room, a hum that can be heard but is not too loud, French. He is not looking. Oh how is he not looking. The curtains are noticed, the piano-forte new from London is noticed, the ceiling decorations then the flooring and even Georgiana's pearl necklace. He speaks to Sir George Preston-Wright longer than he ever needs to. He has heard about how the hogs are doing twice before Georgiana arrives with a grim expression. She takes his elbow, Arthur feels as if he being led to the firing squad. Perhaps guillotine would be more accurate. No, he corrects himself, Bonaparte wasn't keen on the guillotine. 

'Your grace, the duke of Wellington, may I formally introduce you to  _General_ Napoleon Bonaparte.’

Arthur is looking at him. Harriet's presence he can feel, she is off to the side and careful in her staring. There are the French arrayed behind  _that_ man. 

Napoleon smiles. There is a rude expression for the grin on his face, Arthur knows. Soldiers refer to it as “shit eating”. The duke finds himself stiff and formal. They bow. Napoleon asks, You were in Paris recently. I trust the city is well. 

‘Getting along marvellously,’ Arthur replies evenly. Kitty, sensing the need for an intervention, brings drinks.

She smiles at Napoleon, ‘how do you find England…’ she falters for a title.

‘I believe monsieur, will have to do.’ He is indulgent. ‘I fear I have had my greatness reduced. I’m sure your husband would say that it is rightly so.’

Kitty says, almost under her breath, almost out loud, almost publically, ‘he says a lot of things.’

‘Great men do. And others are kind and indulge us.’ The now-general offers her his arm. ‘Come, take a turn with me and I will give you my theories on England.’

As they go off Harriet plucks Arthur’s sleeve and says it could have been worse. Arthur mutters that he’s up to something. I know that smile, he says, he’s planning something.

‘How could you know, Arthur? You’ve never met him before.’

 

 

Harriet finds herself seated next to Dr Phillips and across from Albine, Comtesse de Montholon. A handsome woman, she thinks. But with a sharp expression. Harriet is willing to put money on the woman’s ability to speak English fluently, but is merely hiding it for her own purposes.

Arthur, she almost laughs, is across from Bonaparte. They are decidedly not speaking to one another. Kitty is neighbour to General Bertrand and they are making do with mangled attempts at each other’s language. Her cousin-in-law, the lethargic Sir George Preston-Wright, holds the head of the table. Or, more to the point, holds a bottle of wine at the head of the table. Generous with himself, stingy with the guests. She hears the Emperor-General whisper, in patois Italian to Bertrand, something about the wine and vinegar. She figures she can make an inference there.

‘How is your husband, Harriet?’ Georgiana asks for the benefit of conversation. The table goes quiet and Harriet answers with French that he is well.

‘He will be joining us on Saturday.’

‘Excellent!’ Georgiana makes a discreet motion to the servants and plates are cleared. More are brought out. ‘He should come on Sunday for the summer dinner. It’s in memory of John.’

Arthur, aware of some unspoken tension, attempts to not play with his napkin. Kitty sips her soup and glances innocently about. The Montholon’s and Bertrand’s are looking at nothing in particular. George is in his wine. Bonaparte is smiling but it’s unreadable. Harriet had heard that the General looked charming when he smiled. That he had one of those animated faces, that you always knew how he was feeling. However that may be true, she knows that at this moment she cannot read it. That maybe it’s a smile but maybe it’s a bit vicious looking.

Arthur coughs, says, ‘lovely meal. Just wonderful.’

The dinner continues.

 

‘I hear the old church by Cranford St-John’s is haunted,’ Fannie Bertrand announces with relish. Her husband laughs and shakes his head. He says that she loves anything occult. She eats up local lore faster than anything.

‘We get fireside lectures,’ the general adds. ‘I think the intent is to scare us into not sleeping.’

‘That is not fair, sire.’ Fannie says down the table. ‘If you get scared it’s only your own fault.’

Bonaparte snorts, ‘I’ve never seen a ghost that has scared me yet.’

This interests the table and Dr Phillips asks, So have you? Seen a ghost, that is, general?

The emperor, to Harriet’s interest, seems indulgent on the title of _General._ She wants to ask him what he thinks of it but feels she will get a different answer depending on when and where the question is asked. He strikes her as opportunistic. Malleable. Wiley, Charles would say. Which is fitting, she supposes, considering.

The table is waiting for a response. Napoleon takes his time, a servant refills his wine. Finally, smiling over the glass, he says, 'Well, I won’t say that it was a ghost with certainty. I have heard that the corner of one’s line of sight is hardly reliable, indeed I've enough life experience to agree with that assessment. I'm sure your Mr Newton would have something more to say on the subject of optics. And the case I am thinking of was many years ago, so memory changes things. Ask any lawyer or judge, witness testimony is notoriously unreliable.' He leaves off. Georgiana encourages him, That may be, but you have a story and you cannot keep it from us. He seems gladdened by this.

'Let's see, it was back when I was in Italy. The first campaign in '96. We were at the border and suffering from wretched weather, absolutely terrible. Wet and cold. The sort of cold that sinks into your bones no matter how thick your coat is. We had been suffering through this weather with little to no shelter for weeks, at this point, high up in the mountains until one night our luck changed. Coming to a clearing in the woods we found an old barn. Long abandoned. A bit mouldy. I caught a terrible cold from it.

‘Alongside this barn was the forest, most of the trees were thin, skinny, not the old thick ones here in England or in parts of France. Nothing out of a story book at all, really, but when tired, wet, and hungry it served its purpose of looming well enough.’

Kitty, ‘if it’s too scary I’m not sure I want to hear it.’

Harriet of course wants to know if anyone dies. Napoleon shakes his and smirks. Sips his wine and takes his time. Harriet has known men like him all her life. The centre of attention suits them the best.

‘ _Non, ma chere_. No one dies. Well, not in this story. So, we find this barn and rejoice. Camp is set up and we settle in for the night. I was with an officer named Arnout who was, oh I would say, no more than forty-five. He was a big man, tall, bluff and German looking. A military man through and through. One of those men who is officer material as soon as he can walk.’

‘So not a man to scare easily,’ Arthur declares. He’s leaning back and sipping wine and watching. Harriet cannot read her friend's face. The emperor eyes are amused, his face sober. 

‘Precisely. As the general has put it,’ now that smile is back. The one the soldiers have a rude term for. ‘So, it’s getting late. Men are resting. There is a patrol set up. Camp as usual. Arnout and I are playing cards and listening to the rain. After an hour or so Arnout says, wait a minute I must go out for a moment.’ Napoleon makes a dismissing hand motion. ‘So he goes. I wait. Five minutes pass, then ten, I start to worry. This is war, so of course there are men about – enemy soldiers, brigands, miscellaneous and sundry. But our men haven’t made any noise so I’m thinking maybe he got stopped and was speaking to them. After twenty minutes I go out to search. I ask around, everyone saw him enter the forest, no one has seen him leave it.

‘I move on and ask the patrol, they haven’t heard anything in the past twenty besides the rain. I’m about to turn back and wait another ten before searching the woods when we hear it. It’s Arnout and he’s screaming; a second passes and suddenly he runs right into us, knocks the guard to the ground, gets back up and keeps running. I follow him but he doesn’t stop till he’s inside the barn with the door bared.

‘He's shaking, trembling head to foot and cannot speak. I keep asking him, Arnout what happened? Who did you see? What did you see? He just shakes and his eyes are wild. Like a horses when first being broken. His pistol is next to our cards and mugs. He wants to take it in hand but I won't let him. Not with him in that state. I keep asking him question as I get him to take a seat and have a drink.'

Impatient, George asks, ‘so, what did he see?’

Napoleon holds his hand up in a gesture for peace, ‘I’m getting there. I ask him what happened. What did he see? Was he attacked? Was it a person? An animal? He doesn’t answer for a spell. Then, slowly, it comes out.

‘He went out to the woods, to ah, and he was getting ready to return. As he turned back to the path that led to the camp he noticed something between him and our men. It was about waist high but looked to be crouching. He described it as being very dark, very much like shadows that had taken a human shape. And it was bent over with a hand covering its face. He says he unsheathed his dirk but kept it hidden and called out to it. In French then Italian. Nothing. He took a few steps forward, warning in both languages that he was armed. That there were men nearby who would come at his call. Nothing.’

Outside there were clouds hanging low in the sky. Arthur glances at them and thinks they might get rain before the night is over.

‘He takes another step forward and brings his dirk into view. Then the creature lowers its hand from its face and turns to look at him.’

The room is silent. Down the hall a clock is ticking.

‘And Arnout said that its face was just – dark. Nothing. Shadows on shadows. Except for the eyes which were black holes. Holes that could clearly see and were staring right at him. The next thing he remembers is waking up on his back then managing to stagger upright. He was a mile deeper than he had originally walked and so he starts back. He’s still keeping his head but when he gets to the same spot,’ a motion of display. ‘It’s there again. And it’s watching. This time, though, it’s _smiling._ And he can see teeth. At this point he gives in and starts screaming at it. Screaming and screaming then he begins to run. The next thing he knows he’s in the camp. He doesn’t remember what happened between his stepping forward the first time and waking up further in the forest. As well as what happened between yelling and charging at the creature before suddenly ending up back at the camp.’

Kitty is the first to react and she gives a small clap, ‘terrifying! I would never have been able to sleep after that.’           

Despite himself Arthur asks, ‘what happened after that?’

‘We made a search in the morning. We found his prints, going in, then coming back. We found where he began running. But nothing else.’

‘What about the mile he walked?’ Arthur presses.

‘Nothing.’ The general shrugs. ‘And we hadn’t been drinking, so it can’t be blamed on that.’

The dinner table mulls this over. Arthur can tell that the French party have heard it before. Albine is tittering softly to her husband Montholon. She is watching everyone carefully. There is a soft calculating nature to her eyes. Arthur thinks that she would betray you gently. A musket ball to the back of the head – nice and soft.

Georgiana, apparently livened by the story, gives her own. She says that this Hall, Abelle Hall, is haunted. By a soldier from the Civil war.

‘He lurks in the east wing and only appears on full moons, full regalia and everything. Apparently he died tragically in battle near here.’

Harriet adds, ‘Robert, Lord Castlereagh, has a good ghost story. About a boy he saw coming out of a fire place.’

Arthur laughs, ‘Oh that old one? It’s a good tale, I’ll grant.’

Harriet agrees that it’s a good tale, and maybe he will tell it when he comes to visit. ‘He’s arriving with Charles,’ she explains.

Georgiana gives a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and says, ‘charming. He’s welcome to come, of course, on Sunday.’

Arthur thinks that Georgiana is ready to take heads at the sudden change in the guest list. He sips his wine as the good Doctor takes up the reigns of conversation. He watches Napoleon who is watching him. He thinks, This has _got_ to end.

 

 

After dinner the women depart for the parlour and the men retire to the library for drinks. There is port and brandy and maybe a dram of Scotch if George can coax it from the bottle.

‘I’ve cigars for those who smoke. Doctor? You always oblige me.’ A case is held open and Phillips takes one. ‘Montholon? Bertrand? No? General? My, my, no takers with the French. Too English for you, eh?’ He laughs and the French generals all smile. They are very polite. ‘Arthur, my man, cigar?’ Arthur accepts if only to prove a point. ‘Good, good. Now, tell me, what brings you and the ever lovely Harriet up to Woodford?’

‘Lady Arbuthnot insisted that we all needed a holiday from government. Myself, Charles, and Robert. So,’ he gestures to the room. ‘Here we are.’

George nods and stares hard for a minute, ‘indeed. Here we are.’ And Arthur wonders if he isn’t giving the old drunk enough credit. It’s there again, that feeling, that something’s wrong. The French, all generals, are all smiling and looking polite and sipping brandy. The Doctor is not looking at anyone. Arthur raises his glass and makes a cheers to beautiful women. All the men echo.

Through the ill designs of the heavens Arthur soon finds himself next to the emperor-general and forced to converse. He covers the weather. Napoleon snorts and mutters that he’s sure the Lord of Waterloo, spat out, can do better than that.

‘How do you find England?’ Arthur opts to continue small talk. He has heard that the other man is terrible at it.

‘Fine.’ A shrug. ‘I hear my other option was St Helen.’

‘Could have been.’

‘I hear that was your preference.’

Arthur doesn’t respond for a moment. He then says, ‘I was busy in Paris.’

‘I’m _sure.’_ Napoleon, Arthur notices, is a practiced man at patient sipping of drinks. ‘I’ve been making a portrait of everyone here. Small villages produce interesting people.’

‘I would have thought you would find the society limiting. After Paris.’

‘My dear General Wellesley,’ a smirking smile. ‘The _world_ is limiting after Paris.’

‘So, what has your tableau produced so far?’

‘Hm, my tableau. I like it. It goes to the Greek fable. I’m sure you learned it at school. I was at Brienne when I came across it. Or, I suppose, it could go to that atrocious English rhyme. Someone having a great fall and not anyone being able to put him back together again. Not all the king’s horses, not all the king’s men.’

Arthur would term the man’s smile humourless. If only he wasn’t smoking an overpriced cigar and drinking port and playing the country lord so _terribly._ He thinks, I was not made for this life. This is Richard’s part in the play, not mine.

‘It’s “your grace”.’ He says for something to say.

‘And it’s “sire”.’ The shrug again. ‘We’re even, on that score.’

‘The roof falling in story?’

‘How all over the place you are. What’s the English word for that?’

‘Non-sequetor. But it’s not. That was the Greek fable you were referencing, wasn’t it?’

Napoleon waves him off. A fluid gesture. Arthur _smiles._ He thinks, Damn the man. His lips are practically meeting his ears and the display appears not to phase the other man who continues on.

‘Yes, yes, the dinner, the roof, everyone dies except the actor. Or was it a minstrel? Doesn’t matter. Allow me to say that I know a little of human nature.’

‘I’ll allow it. Though I can’t vouch for parliament.’

‘Thank God for that.’

Arthur is sure that there is more behind the sentence. He thinks there might be a hundred ‘mores’ behind every sentence and he reminds himself to dissect it all later. When the former Emperor of half of Europe isn’t staring at him while sipping brandy like somehow all of this is _normal._

He manages, ‘what were you saying, sir?’

‘That I have been watching. Something is going to happen, I feel. _Finally._ It’s been in the works for half a year now. And it probably won’t be _nice.’_ Napoleon ponders this for a moment then adds, ‘but it will hopefully be interesting. Which is, at least, _something.’_

           

 

That night Arthur catches Harriet by the sleeve. The hall is cool and dark and they are alone but for spluttering candles, the dead gaze of her husband’s ancestors.

‘Next time I refuse to be left alone with _him_.’

She smiles and takes a moment to appreciate the situation.

‘I thought you two had got on marvellously. That what Dr Phillips said.’

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, jams a hand in his pocket.

‘ _Do_ stop sulking, Arthur. It’s not terrible, you know. To have a civil conversation with the man.’

‘You know my views on his pretentions of civility.’

Harriet has always thought the duke especially handsome when put out. She ponders telling him this before deciding against it.

‘Stop being beastly to your wife and I will do my best to keep a third party involved in all future conversations with the emperor.’

‘General.’

She laughs, pats his cheek, says he’s cute.

‘General to you, Emperor to the rest of the world.’ She sighs. ‘I do think that is one thing England will not be able to rob him of.’


	5. Occult Account of the Midlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin. 
> 
> Picnics. 
> 
> Queen Mab.

The next morning comes gently with Arthur up at seven and prowling through the house searching for staff to find him something to make him feel a little more human. While he takes some strong tea and waits for the others to wake so breakfast can be laid out a note arrives from Dr Phillips and Mary inviting them over for luncheon.

‘The Montholons will be in attendance, as well,’ the doctor writes. ‘And the comtesse makes a special entreaty for your presence, sir. She says that you seem to be a man of sense and that such a thing is much needed in these parts. Come at ten and we will make a picnic of it.’

Kitty emerges shortly after Arthur writes back. She gives him a kiss on the cheek; he, for the sake of his agreement with Harriet, manages to smile back.

‘We’re to lunch with the Phillips’ and the Montholon’s.’ He informs her. ‘I think Harriet had best be raised soon, if we’re to be there on time. Though I did write that we might be half an hour or so late. Apologies, etc.’

Kitty is hiding a yawn and stirring her tea, ‘Oh yes, Mary mentioned something about a picnic last night. They seem a nice enough couple.’

‘Hm, I didn’t speak with either of them much.’

‘How do you find the Emperor? Was he what you expected him to be?’

‘Arrogant and taller than myself? Oh yes, he fit the bill quite nicely. He believes that something’s going to happen. Though how much he is able to pick up without being able to speak English, I’m not sure about.’

‘Something to happen?’ She frowns.

‘Yes. Hm, he was confident on that point. But I wouldn’t put much truck in it, Kitty. He’s a Frenchman, after all.’ A thought occurs, ‘and it’s General Bonaparte, now.’

'Yes, dear.’

He makes the point, Not Emperor. She murmurs, Yes, dear. Arthur wonders if she’s having him on as he pours himself another cup. He then decides that he has too much of a headache to begin to think about Kitty in any detail.

‘Well, you should make an effort.’ He mutters lamely as he picks himself up and disappears down the hall.

 

 

Dr Phillips is a robust man in his late forties with an impressive moustache and blonde-white hair. His wife, Mary, is half his age, pregnant, but still has the appearance of being waifish. Her laugh is shrill, her eyes remind Arthur of the fairy court his mother had once told him of. Grey, otherworldly.

Mary holds out her hand to the duke, she says it’s a pleasure to see them again and that she is pleased they could all make it at such short notice.

‘The Montholon’s are already here,’ she leads them through brambles and low hanging trees to the house. There is a path in the garden that is being slowly absorbed by the moss, hidden ivy crawls over gently mouldering benches. Despite the relative heat the park is cool and dim and still dewy. Arthur thinks that Mary Phillips suits her house more than her husband.

‘I hear there aren’t enough sensible men around,’ Arthur says in a half mocking tone. ‘Or is that her being, well, French?’

Mary gives him a look out of the corner of her eye. She is very pale, very soft. But with harsh edges of black hair. She says Albine sometimes says things just to say them. ‘She is much like the General in that way. So, I suppose that makes sense.’

'What makes sense?’

Mary smiles, ‘don’t pry into the business of others. I do find that only ill comes of it. Albine is quite… _quite.’_

           

 

When Arthur meets the comtesse a second time he sees what Mary means by _quite._ Albine is willowy and has something of Josephine about her face. Or Josephine according to the paintings and engravings Arthur has seen. He never had a chance to meet the Empress, though he had been sorely tempted to pay her a visit while he was in Paris. When he wrote to Harriet she advised him against it. Leave her in peace, she had written. The poor woman doesn’t need any more reminders about her and her former-husband’s fate.

He thinks, as he bows over her hand, I see where the rumours come from. And if they are true, I can see _why._

Albine is calm and cool and soft spoken. Her French is delicate. Everything Arthur finds about her is delicate. He also thinks she might be trying too hard.

'Your grace,’ she takes him aside as the others mingle and make plans for the day. ‘I hope you will oblige me later and take a turn. I have heard so much about you and we did not get to speak to one another properly last night.’ Her laugh reminds the duke of small charms in a breeze. _Delicate._ ‘I am afraid the emperor can be quite domineering in his manners. But it’s something you come to appreciate over time.’

‘I found his conversation to be…interesting.’

‘Hm, he’s been intent on studying people lately. Well,’ another laugh. ‘More so than usual. He thinks himself quite the social critic. How he manages without English I will never know. He keeps a little journal on it. Takes notes. When we returned last night he was a fury.’ She squeezes his hand as they re-join the group. ‘I’m sure we have you to thank for the peaceful evening.’

 

 

As they walk Mary declares that she has a story. She says it is fitting, for all the conversation about John and ghosts and woodland devils.

‘I’m from a small village near Farnham. A quaint place, looks much like all other villages in the area. But, being from there, I think it the best. I remember, as a girl, hearing stories about a local cave, which has now become a bit of a sight. People travel from all around to look at it, but when I was just a girl it was more secret.

Legend says that once, long ago, when England was still pagan and belonged to the old gods, a witch lived in the cave. Mother Ludlam is what we call her – her story is the most well known one.  It goes that Mother Ludlam had a magic cauldron, very large and made of copper. With it she would brew special potions for the locals – for aches and pains, for cures, love potions, out-of-love potions, and for scrying the future.

One day she is visited by a gentleman. Very handsome with blue breeches and a beautiful coat with silver and gold thread in it. He says his name is Jack, which she marks as odd and simple for a man so finely attired, and that he has come to borrow her cauldron. She says he cannot have it, that as a witch it is folly to lend out her cauldron to those who do not practice her ways. The gentleman argues back and tries to reason with her but she hears none of it.

As he takes to leave she notices that his tracks are that of a goat, despite his seemingly human feet, and it is then that she realises that he is really the Devil in disguise. In order to protect her cauldron she hides it away and asks a local man to watch over it.

That night, as the full moon sits in the sky, the Devil, Jack, comes back. He soon finds where the cauldron is hidden and the man standing guard.

“Evening, Goodman,” he greets the watcher. “I have come to retrieve the cauldron for Mother Ludlam.” He tries to be charming with smiles and palming of coin but the young man is resolute. He declares that he will not let anyone take the cauldron except for Mother Ludlam for those _had been_ the express orders. The Devil does not take this well and soon raises a hand against the watcher. The Goodman freezes then falls to the ground, dead, with only a bit of foam about his mouth. His eyes are white and his face in an expression of agony.

During this time Mother Ludlam is scrying in the old way – with the bones and the water collected in the dark hours of a new moon – when she sees that her cauldron has been stolen and an innocent murdered. She takes to the sky and chases the Devil down as he flies north through the midlands. Eventually he abandons the kettle upon a hill and dives into the crevices of rocks and deep places of the earth.

Mother Ludlam gathers up the cauldron returning to Farnham where she leaves it in the care of the local church. You can still see it today. It is used to brew ales and wines in the winter months and said to still have magical properties.

Another story says that it belongs to the faie and they would lend it out to locals to use. One man was late in returning it and the faie cursed him. They followed him wherever he went and he always felt as if he was carrying the weight of the cauldron. At last he could not take any more and he took the cauldron to the church where it would be safe. Upon entering and giving it to the priest the man collapsed on the floor in a fit and died. His soul, such as it must have been, was taken by the faie. When they buried him he went to the ground missing his teeth, the marrow from his bones.

When I was young we would go, pour in some water, and look into it to try and see the faces of our future husbands. When I looked I couldn’t see anything. Only murky hazes and unfamiliar features.’

She pauses. The sun is warm and settling the group into a content manner.

‘Finally I saw one, but it cannot be true. It looked too much like John Preston-Wright. I think, maybe, some of the Devil’s devilry entered the pot and never left.’

 

 

After lunch and idle chatter Arthur asks Albine to show him the walks along the riverside. She obliges with a winsome smile. Her husband watches but the duke finds the comte just as unreadable as his wife.

‘You wished to speak with me, madam.’ He offers as she appears disinclined to begin. ‘An important matter, I must assume.’

‘Yes and no.’ She chooses a spot in the grass to settle. With the waxing afternoon her movements have become more slow, more languid and elegant. She smells of roses and her hair is brown to gold in the sun. ‘It is important in a vague sense of importance. As in, if one were to be romantic and speak of high causes and pursuits of justice, it would be important. However, to the real world, it is mostly just tawdry. It is to do with the death of Mr Preston-Wright last year.’

Arthur can think of nothing to say and so says nothing. Albine appreciates this and continues.

‘I must assume you have heard of it?’

‘Oh yes, of course. It seems the subject _du jour.’_

‘Mostly because we are so dreadfully bored here. It’s almost as if we’re hoping for another murder, if only to keep things interesting. The matter I wanted to speak to you about is the event itself. Or, rather, how it looked.’

She pauses to collect her thoughts. The trees by the river are long limbed and sinewy. They fit well with the story of devils and witches and faie. It is becoming a fantastical holiday, Arthur muses. Murders and lore, what even London has little on this.

‘It was a, ah, a portrait, I suppose. I cannot put my finger on it but something was _wrong_ with the situation. I’ve tried explaining this to the emperor but he says he cannot comment as he wasn’t there.’

‘He also doesn’t seem to be a patient man.’

‘Oh,’ a shrug. ‘He is. When he wants to be. Which is not often. But this scene – with the poor gentleman standing up to get a glass of wine and then the next thing you know he’s on the floor positively dead. Just like that,’ she snaps her fingers. ‘And he’s dead. Dropped faster than a weight. Mrs Topsom sort of screamed and went feint, then over the body was Dr Phillips and Henri. I was by the garden windows with Lady Georgiana. Everyone else perfectly still in their seats. A portrait. It was odd, your grace, and too – oh, I’m not sure – but too _perfect.’_

Arthur murmurs that he’s not sure what she’s asking. She clarifies, The emperor suggested that maybe I thought it might have been murder.

‘I thought it was heart failure or some such?’

‘That is what your inquest ruled. That is what the doctor believes, yes.’

‘What exactly was wrong with the situation? It sounds quite matter of fact to me.’

‘That is because you weren’t there. Mary agrees with me, something wasn’t right. Though, she’s a little, ah,’ a hand motion. ‘A little addled. We joke that the fairies she loves so much have taken her.’

‘That’s hardly fair.’  

‘No, it’s not.’ She doesn’t look apologetic. ‘But it’s true. Regardless, she can see and she was there and she agrees. I don’t know that it was _murder_ as the emperor suggests, but it was _something.’_

‘What are you proposing, madam?’

‘That you do something about it. Or,’ a sudden laugh. ‘At the very least, gossip about theories with me. Come visit us, Charles and I get so dreadfully annoyed with one another. And I think the Emperor, sorry, the _General_ is having a fit and feeling terribly _bored._ It’s so dull here, your grace, new company is always a pleasure. You really have no idea.’

‘It could have been worse.’

‘Oh yes. We could have ended up on another dreaded island. Cold, windy, and damp.’ She looks coy. ‘Of course, I suppose, we already have.’

 

 

In the twilight they gather up coats and blankets and decide that it is time to return to the doctor’s. Phillips says that he’ll have some drinks laid out for the guests and that they are welcome to stay for supper should they so desire.

‘We missed tea, I’m afraid.’ He holds back a low hanging bow for the ladies. ‘But I’m sure we can make do.’

Mary is like a shade as she passes beneath branches and the shadows of trees. Dr Phillips takes her arm and pulls her close; Harriet finds Arthur and says in a whisper, ‘She’s completely mad, you know. Thinks the faie are out for her.’

‘The comtesse said something similar.’

'You two were thick as thieves. Did she have anything interesting to say? Any good gossip I can pass along to Charles?’

Arthur hums a ‘no’ and murmurs that they were just getting to know one another. ‘We spoke of the weather. A bit of the General. A little of Paris and her environs. Nothing memorable.’

Harriet watches him with a quiet expression and they drop to the back of the party. She waits till there is a small distance, ‘I do hope you know what you’re doing, you terrible man. I’m going to be busy this week making sure everything is in order for Charles and Robert. I have papers I need to go over, suggestions to draught out.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what the cabinet would do without me. Ah! You’re not to do a thing, Arthur Wellesley. I’ll send Black Agnes on you if you so much as think of work. Or one of those ghostly monks that are so popular around these parts. _Holiday._ What I’m trying to say is, keep out of trouble will you? I won’t necessarily be available to bail you out of a sticky situation should the need arise.’

‘Harriet, I’ve never needed bailing!’

‘Course not.’

‘I’ve never been bailed in life. Well, except for that one time with Richard in Dublin. But we were lads.’   

‘The Ham and Steeple Chase story?’         

‘Lord no, though I had forgotten about that. All right, I’ve been bailed twice in my life. But I was a lad.’ He laughs. ‘Less so now. I’ll be quite all right, Harriet. I’m not sure why you’re so worried.’    

‘Reasonably concerned. The comtesse is known for, ah, intrigue. Stirring the pot, so to speak. Making trouble when bored and I do believe that she is very often bored.’

They fade back in with the group and Arthur says that he will be just fine. That there is nothing to worry about, except maybe for the ghosts and the witches and, of course, the fairy court.

‘Queen Mab will come for thee tonight,’ he laughs. ‘With her thimble sled and what have you. Am I quoting it correctly?’

‘You’re quoting it abhorrently, as you perfectly well know. You are a positive devil when you want to be.’

As they go inside to a fire and chocolate and port, with warm candles and a hearth and table, Harriet comments, ‘Northamptonshire is surprisingly cold in feeling this time of year. Usually it’s such a lovely place. But tonight I can’t help but feel as if we’re being watched and by something that means harm rather than good.’


	6. A Continuation of a Story

The day is dull. A dull grey, overcast sky. The dull colours of the midlands. The dull, slopping landscape. Arthur wonders what it must be like to grow up in such a place. Just flat and only sloping mounds to fill in the spaces between land and sky. There is, he admits, the occasional sheep. Just to break things up.

By eleven he’s made enough havoc for Harriet to boot him from the house.

‘I have work,’ she says. ‘I’m reading over some papers for Robert.’

‘I could help.’

‘ _Holiday._ ’ She pushes him from her husband’s study, which is really hers more than his, and gives him an exasperated look. ‘Go bother someone else, Arthur Wellelsey. Go be a scourge to the Scourge of Europe. Albine says he could use some company. You can be bored together.’

He huffs and retires to the solar only to find Kitty. He beats a hasty retreat and, after driving the staff half mad, decides that maybe Harriet is right and a ride is in order.  

 

 

He is let in by a young British officer who, after a brief talk, he finds out is known solely as the emperor’s “shadow”.

‘I have to ascertain his presence twice a day, nine to eleven morning and night.’

‘The full two hours?’

The young man shrugs. He says it’s hardly arduous, plus he gets to perfect his French and isn’t that something the lasses like? French? Arthur says he wouldn’t know. The boy muses, Yes, I suppose not. He finds out that the boy’s name is Layton George Humphrey.

‘My mum’s American,’ he explains. ‘Hence my Christian name. I believe they like to name people with last names over there.’

 

Napoleon Bonaparte, “scourge of Europe” as Robert likes to call him, is sitting by a window and reading. He wears glasses, Arthur notes. And looks unnoticeable in civilian clothes. Especially in the dark blues and blacks and greys that he’s currently wearing. Arthur thinks that he shouldn’t notice these things.

‘Good day,’ he greets and stands awkwardly by the door. Napoleon sets his book down, folds glasses and places them on top of it.

‘What brings you here?’

There is something quieter about both of them, here. Something softer without dinner formalities and uniforms and everyone watching everyone and how did the microcosm of the countryside get to be like _this_?

‘I’ve been shuffled out of house and home for the moment.’

The emperor-general gives a flicker of a smile.

‘I’m sure you’ve been a positive terror.’ He motions to a chair and Arthur takes a seat. Arthur’s unsure of himself and hates that it’s showing. He is stiff, back straight and hands carefully placed on their respective rests. ‘I remember Josephine saying something similar of me on more than one occasion.’

There is a pause that hangs about for longer than necessary. Suddenly Arthur wants to run, he wonders what he could possibly have been thinking. What could they _possibly_ have to say to each other?

‘You came by horse?’ The emperor, former emperor, asks.

‘Yes, one of Charles’, that is, Lady Arbuthnot’s husband.’

 ‘Care for a ride? We’ll have to take that mousey looking boy along, but he’s not too bad for an Englishman.’ And suddenly he’s smiling. Arthur remembers that Maitland had said the emperor could change the weather if he smiled enough. Or scowled enough. Expressive, he had said, as only someone from the Mediterranean can be.

           

 

Arthur begins, once they’re on a trail, he says, ‘I was surprised you did not come to the Phillips’ last night. I was given to understand that country life can be tedious.’

‘Tedious, yes. But less so when I don’t have to put up with the good doctor and his wife.’

‘I didn’t find them so.’

Once again, there is silence. The occasional required polite comment. Arthur mentions the weather and receives a smirking smile.

‘That story you told the other night, was it true?’

The general murmurs an Oh yes, very true.

 Napoleon adds, ‘I left part of it out.’

‘Which part?’

‘That I saw it too. The next night, sitting outside the window. Watching.’

‘I can’t tell if you’re having me on or not.’ 

‘I believe that’s the point of ghost stories.’

 

 

They stop by River Nene and let their horses rest. The boy, whom Napoleon has given the Italianized name of _‘Tonio_ , lingers behind and seems mostly unimpressed with both of the men.

Arthur takes this time to study his former enemy and it becomes increasingly difficult when he finds that Napoleon is reciprocating but with a rather unwavering stare. He remembers someone once described the look as “piercing through bone” and he, himself is inclined to agree. After a moment the other man laughs, short and sharp, then looks away. Arthur feels like he has been interrogated and decides that this first visit with the former-emperor will be his last.

‘Wieland met you, I believe.’ Arthur says it for something to say. They are in a silence that ought not to be encouraged.

‘Yes, at a ball. Years ago.’ He turns and stares at Arthur again, as if the duke’s face holds the memory itself. Arthur wants to tell him to stop. Be a gentleman. Gentleman don’t stare. Instead he shifts, pats his horse and looks to the horizon. ‘A rather dull man, if I recall.’

‘He said you could see through to him and saw that he was just a simple and unassuming chap.’

‘I saw that he wanted others to see him as a simple and unassuming chap. Just as you solely want to be a title and a country but with very little man behind it.’

‘And you?’

The smile is back and it’s clever and impish.

‘I want to be what people want to think me to be.’

‘Duplicitous.’

‘Ta, don’t be such a fool. I know first hand that you are not. I am merely making myself amendable for different situations.’

Arthur doesn’t believe this. He thinks, You mercurial _bastard_.

 

 

‘Albine says she enjoyed your company yesterday.’ They’re closer to the town centre and _‘toni_ is looking miserable. Napoleon has confided to Arthur that the boy is a terrible rider. Can hardly stay atop the horse let alone go for long distances. Arthur had responded, So you’re torturing the lad? And he had said, No, I’m providing much needed practice.

‘She was expounding her theories of Preston-Wright’s death.’

‘Ahh yes, the great detective Comtesse de Montholon.’

‘So you put no stock in her story?’

No answer before a slow shaking of his head. Arthur takes a moment to notice his hair. Which isn’t as dark as he’d have thought. And his skin. Which isn’t as sallow or sickly as pretty much everyone he knows has said. He thinks, Maybe it’s the lighting.

‘I do and I don’t. I wasn’t there and witness testimony,’ he shrugs. ‘I’ve only heard my circle’s account. I don’t know what the other’s think.’            

‘Albine says that Georgiana was standing beside her. So does Mrs Topsom.’

‘And Charles.’ Napoleon amends, ‘Montholon.’

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘Probably.’

‘Only natural that people misremember an event that happened a year ago.’

‘Only natural.’

‘Why are you agreeing with me?’

‘Because you weren’t speaking to me.’

 

           

They return and settle on chess to pass the time. Napoleon manages to convince Arthur that he won’t be welcomed back to Woodford House until at least teatime. Though, he adds, I’d wait until supper if I were you. Your mistress is a vocal one.    

This gets Arthur coughing over the game and the brandy and glaring at the emperor’s amusement.

He mentally corrects, Former emperor.

‘Harriet and I are not – That is we are not. There are rumours but they’re hardly true.’

‘I thought it was very forward of you to go on holiday with both wife and mistress. _Usually_ one picks. Saves a world of trouble.’

‘She’s not. We’re not.’

‘Not what? In the same room? Related? Friends? Enemies?’

‘You’re doing this to distract me. Don’t think I can’t see your game.’

Napoleon gives him a look and moves a piece. He says, I don’t think there is much of “my game” that you can see. Arthur doesn’t know how to take this so moves on. He finally manages to say that Harriet is not his mistress. Napoleon congratulates him on his use of full sentences and complete thoughts.

‘You must accept my apology, Wellesley. I had only thought it because your wife is under the impression and so…’ There is a wave of his hand that Arthur can’t read. It reminds him of Paris, all the little waves of hands and shrugs and half shrugs that mean _something_ but for the world he cannot figure out _what._

‘When were you speaking with Kitty?’

‘At the dinner. After the game of loo. It was very brief. She seems a nice enough woman.’

Arthur tenses; he's testy, uptight, and hating it. He wants to know how the blasted man is doing this.

‘Yes, well, you don’t have to live with her.’

The look he receives is unreadable. The emperor, former emperor, says Check and smiles.

 

 

Harriet asks, after dinner, after drinks, after a smoke and a prowl around the garden.

‘So? How was it?’

‘Surreal. How do you think it was? I just spent the day with the former tyrant of France. I don’t understand him _at all_.’

‘Oh good,’ she’s smiling and takes his arm. ‘It will be a project for you, while we’re here. “Figure Out the Emperor of France”. You can write a monograph on it.’

She disengages, plucks a flower from a bush, and says Good night, Arthur. As she stands at the garden doors she turns, her dress is white and the moonlight is reflecting in it.

‘Oh, and Arthur, do be a dear tomorrow and bring some of cook’s food over to the French? The Bertrands are absolutely in love with her curry dishes.’

‘I’ll do no such thing.’ He likes to think he sounds stout and resolute. But, then, Harriet only laughs.

‘Of course you will. Kitty wants to discuss her latest book with you.’

She leaves. Arthur swirls his drink and stares up at the stars.

 

 

The sun is still hiding behind clouds and the threat of rain when he arrives the next morning. He manoeuvres past a curious Albine and Fannie, manages to procure more than five words from Bertrand and is finally delivered to _his majesty._ Napoleon is seated at his desk fiddling with cut-outs of local flora and fauna. He has a large tome opened to a more obscure section of English Weeds.

‘For my garden,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘You’ve come back.’ He turns and takes his glasses off. Arthur finds he still cannot get over that. The glasses. They are small, round, and judging by how the general’s eyes tense when he’s trying to see something up close, probably quite strong.

‘Harriet asked me to deliver something from her cook to yours.’

Napoleon is half turned and reclining against his desk. He looks leisurely. He doesn’t offer Arthur a seat.

‘And that requires the Duke of Wellington’s careful handling?’

‘I volunteered.’

A wicked smile. ‘Don’t lie to me, Wellesley.’

‘I would –‘

A hand held up, ‘peace. I’m not in the mood. Shall we go for a ride?’

Arthur says it looks like rain, so maybe not. Or, something close by. Napoleon nods, he’s running fingers along the edges of the glasses frames. He offers a walk, then. Just around. We’ll give poor _‘toni_ a rest.

 

           

‘I was thinking about the Preston-Wright death,’ Napoleon says when they’re outside and the prying ears of the walls have turned into prying bushes. ‘Heart failure, was it? Which really can mean anything. There are diseases that cause it. Activities. Poisons.’ That hand gesture Arthur has seen before. He thinks it probably means “and so on and so forth, you understand what I am saying, correct? I shan’t be explaining it anymore”.

‘So, poison then?’

A shrug.

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Of course, there is the simple question of why. Why would anyone want to kill him? And presumably it was someone local. He arrived shortly after we did. A cousin to the Lady Georgiana?’

‘Hm, yes. Though Harriet says they were hardly close. In fact, that Georgiana rather did not like the man.’

They’re passing by beehives, a wilting willow, brambles that had once been English roses. Arthur thinks that the garden could use some work. Napoleon murmurs that he “has plans”.

‘Yes, it seemed that way to me. Though I’ll grant I didn’t start paying too much attention until right before.’ They come to a stop by the gate and Arthur resists the urge to fidget with the shrubbery leaves. ‘Of course there was that fight. Quite big. After a dinner, about a year and a half ago. In English so I’m not sure what it was about. Albine says they were just yelling something like, her to him, “I hate you and wish you had never come here” and him to her “But I thought you would be happy to see me” and her back “happy to see you dead. I wish you had died”.’

‘ _Well_ then.’

‘You really _must_ do better. Is that all you can say?’

‘It sounds personal.’

‘I should hope so. It was a fight between family! They’re the best kind of personal. Trust me.’

Arthur looks over but doesn’t ask. He wants to know who out of the siblings had won most of them. He thinks, for a moment, that it must have been the General. Then he thinks, No, probably the sisters. One of the baby sisters. Not Lucien. And almost never Joseph.

They follow their own thoughts for a minute before Napoleon about-faces and begins a meandering trail back to the house. As they entre he turns to Arthur and says, ‘if it’s going to rain you had best stay here till it calms down.’

Arthur looks out to the dark sky, the hidden sun. Inside he can hear a clock chiming for eleven and thinks it very early to be so dark.

‘All right, but no later than tea.’

‘As you wish.’

 

 

They have drinks and settle in front of the fire. Napoleon unceremoniously dumps the Bertrands and Montholons out of the room. He explains that he can only handle so much of them. That he needs a break from them and their sniffing after his will.

In the corner Arthur feels eyes on him and thinks that maybe not everyone has left. But, that would be like the emperor-general. Keep another pair of eyes in the room, just in case he needs to see something from another angle.

‘You said the other night that you had yet to see a ghost that could scare you. I take it to mean that you’ve had other experiences.’ Arthur is staring at the legs in his scotch while he asks. Napoleon is watching the fire. Outside it is raining. In the distance there is thunder.

‘This is a better setting for it than the dinner.’ He settles back and rests his glass on his stomach. ‘Have you seen any?’

‘I may have a story or two. But you must tell yours first since I’ve already asked.’

Napoleon sighs, ‘very well.’ He thinks on it for a moment then nods. ‘When I was in Prussia we had recently taken a fort. It was in a secure position so I decided to rest the army there for a few weeks. After a week or so reports began circulating that things happened around three am. The men were saying that they heard something coming towards them when they made their rounds – usually from behind. And, of course, as they turned to face it they would pass out. Waking up a few minutes later they would find nothing.

'Bertrand and I dismissed the allegations at first. Nerves, we put it down to. Drinking on watch. Hearing too many stories from the locals who are convinced that everything and sundry is haunted. You know how it is with soldiers, naturally superstitious and they hear one story then suddenly they see the ghosts too.

'So it continues for another three days. And another three. Finally, in order to put their fears at rest, Bertrand and I decided to take that watch one night. We figured that if the men saw that nothing happened to us they would put the silly story away.

'The three am bell comes around and we’re walking along the perimeter of the fort. So far the night has been quiet and clear with plenty of moonlight to see by. About five minutes after the bell rings we hear it.’ He pauses to gather his thoughts. The storm has picked up and now there is lightening. Arthur wonders where the other members of French party are. He wonders if they are playing cards or having tea or maybe alone in their rooms. The house is very quiet. There is the crackling of fire.

‘It sounds a little like horse hooves, but not quite. It’s the closest approximation Bertrand and I can come up with. We don’t turn around; we stop and stand still. It’s still a ways behind us but steadily coming closer. I pull out a small hand held mirror – the sort women use to adjust their hair – and hold it up. We see nothing but the sound is still getting closer. Then, there appears to be a shape – something like a horse but not. It has hands, so I suppose a centaur would be the better word. The hands are reaching out towards us. They were thin with long fingers and long, jagged nails. At first it looks like there are two feet, then four, and then six. It hits us and,’ he snaps his fingers. ‘That’s all I remember.’

Arthur finishes his drink and pours himself another. He asks, What did you tell the men?

‘That we saw nothing, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘We moved out later that week and if there were whispers then there were whispers. The rest of the campaign was uneventful on the ghostly, strange creature front.’

‘Did you tell anyone about this?’

‘Joseph and Josephine, both of whom put it down to stress and not enough sleep. Though, I pointed out that if that were the case I’d be seeing mysterious six legged centaurs everywhere.’ Napoleon takes back the brandy and pours himself a glass. ‘Your turn.’

Arthur settles into his chair, fingers tapping the glass and wondering how best to start the story.

He sighs, and begins with voice low. ‘When I was a young man, I went with my brother Richard and our mother up to Edinburgh to visit some friends of the family. We were staying in the city and, well, let’s say that when I was young I was prone to romantics and too much wine.

One night Richard and I were staying up late playing billiards and having a bit of a lark. My brother, at the time, was still pretending to be a serious man of the world and so rarely relaxed. That changed as he got older and gave up the pretence.’ A derisive snort, ‘such as it was.

‘We had finished two bottles of wine and were on the hunt for a third. Deciding to not bother the staff we made our way down to the wine cellar. The house we were in was quite old and had a bit of a history. There was a rather far-fetched story about a mad, cannibalistic son of a former lord who ate one of the kitchen boys. Another story about a man who lurked in the back of the kitchens and didn’t like men so all the male staff had to be careful when going down the stairs lest they be pushed; the usual sort of fancy that gathers around buildings that have seen a bit of time.

So, Richard and I are down in the wine cellar deciding what we want to drink. It’s dark, we have a lamp and a candle but no other light. Richard seems out of sorts and declares that he doesn’t like being down here, that it feels like something keeps grabbing his hand. I tell him that he’s drunk. Which he owns is true, but so is the feeling of someone holding his hand. He goes back up the stairs and waits at the top for me.

After a minute there’s a laugh, child like almost, I ask him what’s so funny and he tells me he didn’t laugh. We’re staring at each other and it’s silent. The sort of silence you get in powder magazines.

I brush it off, I said that I was a bit drunk and probably hearing things and go back to the wine. After a moment I feel something brush the back of my neck. A sort of breath, or maybe very like fingers.’ He mimics the gesture. Like that. Soft. ‘I freeze, staring at a bottle from Loire with a farm house stamped on the label, and ask, very carefully, ‘Richard, you haven’t come down the stairs have you?’ He doesn’t answer. I look up and he’s frozen in place with a look of sheer terror on his face. He says, very quietly, ‘Arthur, sod the wine, come up the stairs _right now_.’ Still holding the wine bottle I bolt up and we slam the door behind us and double, triple check that it’s locked.’

Napoleon is eager and asks, ‘what was? What did he see?’

‘He wouldn’t tell,’ Arthur frowns. ‘He just said there was something behind me. He drank after that and didn’t really stop till we returned home.’ The frown is deepening. ‘Though, he did say something once. I ask occasionally, and he usually brushes it off, but one time he said, “I couldn’t see its eyes”. That’s it. “I couldn’t see its eyes”.’

 

In the house, somewhere, a door slams. Napoleon, staring at his brandy asks, calmly, ‘do you want to go find everyone else?’

And Arthur replies, ‘yes, let’s do that.’


	7. The Perfect Murder: A Monologue

It’s over the morning paper when Arthur finds himself denying that he thinks the emperor vaguely human. He says, ‘I think no such thing.’ He can tell Harriet doesn’t believe him so he mutters, turning a page, ‘I’ve never once given any incentive for you to believe that I think anything of the man.’ He sighs. ‘If I visit someone twice and you think me their bosom friend I’d hate to see what happens when, if, I make up to three visits.’

Harriet is laughing over her tea and toast and letters. She declares that she’ll leave off for now. ‘Oh Arthur, don’t look so peevish. You haven’t the face for it, darling.’

He snorts into the paper. She smiles at her letters. Kitty scowls at her tea.

 

 

Georgiana invites the French and the Wellesley-Arbuthnot parties over for a _soiree_ in the _ante-res novae_ fashion. Come tonight, she writes. The weather is positively wretched and so we must have _something_ to mind the time.

‘Is there a theme to contemplate before we go?’ Kitty asks. She takes Arthur’s hand as they stroll through the gardens. He tries to not twitch as that would be _not be gentleman like._ Judging from Harriet’s pointed look he failed. With a sigh he takes Kitty’s hand and places it on his arm. She is beside herself with joy. He is trying not to grimace.

‘Apparently she wants us to contemplate “the perfect art”.’ Harriet purses her lips. ‘Surely she could have come up with something more original than that.’

‘I did not put your cousin down as an overly original woman, no offence of course.’

The group settles on a bench. There are patches of sunlight and both Kitty and Arthur managed to persuade Harriet to take a break from running the country to enjoy what little sun is out before they become trapped into another storm.

‘She was,’ Harriet muses over this. ‘Once. But that was years ago.’

Kitty asks, What happened?

‘I don’t know. Georgiana and I were never close. I always liked her, when we were young girls. Of my cousins she was the closest in age. She used to be so happy, bright, cheerful, witty, clever. Then.’ She looks off to the distance. ‘It must be now, maybe, six, seven years ago. You were in Spain, at the time, Arthur. For some reason she went up to Scotland,’ a harsh laugh. ‘For reasons I’m not entirely sure about. Why would _anyone_ want to go up there unless they have to is beyond me. Regardless, I think there might have been a cousin of a cousin up there. She went up with Mary, Dr Phillips’ wife. They were there for a better part of a year and when she came back it was like something had replaced my bright, clever, cheerful cousin with a different person.’

Above them the sun slid from view. Kitty wrapped her shawl around herself, she rested a hand on Arthur’s and he didn’t seem to notice.

Harriet looks back to them and gives a wan smile, ‘if I was inclined to baseless superstitions I would say that she was a changeling. The faie had got her and left us with this creature in her stead. _If_ I was inclined to baseless superstitions.’

 

 

The French party is, acceptably, fashionably late. Albine makes an entrance that only a woman of an Imperial court can make. Fannie follows, more quiet, more shy, and on the hand of her husband. Then Montholon and the Emperor-General who looks archly when he spots Arthur, hiding towards the back of the room.

‘Unfortunately the Phillips’ could not make it,’ Georgiana says as she takes her seat. ‘Mary, as some of you know, is with child and so must be careful.’ She purses her lips, as if doubting this. She presses on, ‘so we will have to make do. I thought we could begin with a reading, Fannie has agreed to prepare a little something for us.’

The young woman stands, gathers her skirts and her papers and a small book. She opens it up to a marked page, excuses that it will be in French, and begins.

 

 

Montholon laughingly declares, as food is brought in, ‘the true art, the perfect art, I think, would be the perfect murder.’

Napoleon snorts and Arthur thinks that this may be an old conversation between them.

Montholon is undeterred, he explains, ‘think about it. The perfect murder, of course, is one where no one thinks a murder has been committed. The ability to create such a situation and a series of events and still have the nerve to pull it off, as well as the acting skills. It’s all the arts in one-‘

‘You’ve thought about this too much, Charles.’ Napoleon says. Arthur can’t read his face. He can’t read any of the faces of the French. They are very still.

‘Yes, well, you were party to the process, sire.’     

 Kitty’s voice is small. Arthur thinks, I’ve forgotten others are in the room. ‘How is it all the arts?’ She asks it. She is looking at everyone all at once. Arthur wants to tell her, Don’t be so tedious. It’s perfectly _obvious._

Montholon is glad of the audience. He leans forward, he is using his hands as he speaks. ‘Well, madam, it is very simple. You are a writer, for you must draught and plan and write the script of the murder. So, as an example his majesty and I concocted last night, let us say you have an aunt or someone. You want their money as you are the sole beneficiary of their will. Now, to do this you must create a natural death that cannot be construed as either suicide or murder. Murder, for then eyes are naturally cast at the person who will benefit the most from the murder. Suicide since then there are legal problems with the inheritance. So, death by natural causes it is.

To do this you must sit down and analyse the person. Their habits. Their vices. Who they see, where they go, what they eat, in order to devise the most suitable way to kill them.’

‘It’s an intimate process,’ the emperor-general adds. ‘Which is why family members and lovers, usually former lovers, make the best murderers.’

‘So you are a watcher. An audience to this person. Watching and analysing people is an art. Then, you must design their death. How and when and where. All very important. Are you a quiet person? Do you want them to die in their bed? Their garden? Or are you bold? Do you have them die in public?’

Napoleon says to Kitty, ‘an accident, madam. The world is dangerous.’

Montholon nods. ‘Or are you angry, so you kill them where they should be the safest – amongst friends and family.’

‘At dinner, perhaps. Or at a ball. Or a _soiree._ ’ 

‘We have a list, ‘Montholon says.

The entire group is very still. Montholon continues.

‘So here you are an artist picking the subjects and the scenery. You are making a sort of portrait. Then comes the tricky bit. You transition from a draughtsman, a designer, a watcher, a painter to an actor, a director, an active agent of it all. You gather your necessary tools. You wait. You watch. You set the scene, you rehearse, you stage-manage everything to perfection.

Then you must act. You do the deed. You poison them, or push them, or hold them under – however it is that you have decided to do it. And then the hardest part. You are now an actor and a story teller. You pretend grief, heartbreak, shock and trauma. You pretend but cannot over do or under do it. Grief is hard to act to perfection. It’s a very pervasive thing, in one’s life. And it hits you when you least expect it. To act it truly and at all times – well, that is true talent. That is the art of the great actor. Then the art of story teller. How did the event happen. What lead up to it. What happened after.’

Napoleon’s smile widens a fraction as Montholon leans back, finished.

‘And this bit is where they usually mess up,’ Napoleon says.

Kitty asks, ‘how so? This seems the easiest part. Create a story and just repeat it.’

The emperor nods, ‘yes. Precisely.’ He holds up his hand. ‘The creation of a story is the first mistake.’

Kitty asks why but he doesn’t explain. He says, my, I think our turn has run over. Montholon you do take forever to explain things. It’s the embellishment.

And Montholon, who is suddenly as cryptic as his emperor, agrees. He says that he is sorry that it took so long to explain. Shall we move on? I do believe it is the _Lord of Waterloo’s_ turn.

Arthur glares at him for a second then slips back to impassiveness. He looks to Napoleon and there’s an expression he cannot place – but it is fleeting and soon they are mirrors of impassivity as Arthur begins.

He says, ‘I would say music is the perfect art.’

Harriet laughs, ‘of course you chose that.’

Georgiana smiles.

Kitty looks sad and sympathetic and because she _knows_ he hates her all the more.

 

 

           

Later, after the _soiree_ and drinks and a light super, the group retires to the library to look at Sir George’s original German prints.

‘Sixteenth century, they are. In quality condition and very rare.’

There are comments made and only Bertrand seems to take actual interest. Napoleon, standing near Arthur comments, ‘Henri and his prints. He’s obsessed. Would spend his fortune on them if his wife didn’t stop him.’

‘I’m glad to see he’s capable of speaking more than five words.’ Arthur mutters, slowly edging his way around the room. Napoleon follows.

‘That’s only because he doesn’t like you.’

‘Why should he not like me, monsieur?’

'Why do you think.’ He stops. Arthur stops as well, only because if he went any more further he would run into Kitty who is trying to be _nice_ to him. ‘We were getting along amiably enough yesterday.’

‘Were we?’    

‘I thought so. Brandy?’

‘No, thank you.’ Arthur motions to his drink. He hates this constant watching. This constant surveillance. ‘Not thinking of killing me are you?’ He asks in jest. It’s a poor attempt but Napoleon gives a small snort and shakes his head.

‘Not at this particular moment, no.’

Arthur doesn’t want to analyse that statement in too much detail. He leans into a bookshelf, feeling their spines digging into his.

‘What did John Preston-Wright look like?’ He asked after a moment.

'I only met him a handful of times, but I would say average height. Blondish hair, the muddy kind. A bit tan – he had been in the war and was newly returned. We spoke here and there about that.’ A shrug. ‘A handsome man, neither here nor there on age. I’d say forty something when he died. Bertrand knew him a little better than I. Didn't care for him as I understand it.’

‘Yes well, he doesn’t like me apparently.’

Napoleon tuts, ‘to be fair. Henri doesn’t like many people. Or, rather, is ambivalent about most people.’

Harriet soon makes her way over and asks them, as coyly as she can, what they were whispering about so secretly here, away from the group.

‘Do you not find the 1537 prints _fascinating_ , monsieur?’

‘Such as?’ She is laughing.

‘Why, yourself madam.’

Arthur grumbles that he needn’t be so obvious. Napoleon goes on and declares her a captivating woman.

‘I hear you veritably run the men who run the government.’

‘I keep a firm hand on them, monsieur. Otherwise who knows what they would do.’

The duke decides that this is enough and tells Harriet that they had been discussing John Preston-Wright, or, more to the point, what he looked like.

'I met him years ago,’ Harriet moves to sit down by the window. Outside it begins to rain. They watch the trees in the wind and the disappearance of stars. ‘Georgiana’s cousin, and a distant one at that. Tall man, taller than you Arthur. Brown hair.’      

Napoleon frowns, ‘that’s not the man I met.’

Harriet carefully sets her glass down. She folds and unfolds her fan after a moment she says, ‘excuse me?’

‘I met a blond haired man, average height, tanned from the sun. A soldier.’

‘Oh yes, John _was_ a solider. I believe. Though his family wasn’t well enough off to get him a very good commission. Charles and I tried, on the behalf of Georgiana, but to no avail.’

Arthur wants to know when he fought.

‘Sixth coalition, he went over in the beginning of it. Then stayed, from what I understand, was present during 1815 and Waterloo. He came back only recently.’

‘Sixth months after we arrived, madam.’

Standing Arthur goes in search of a bottle of port. He says he’s feeling the need for something sweet on such a dismal night. Then he declares that what they need is a portrait of the man.

‘People remember all sorts of things differently. We need a portrait, even a miniature will do. I don’t suppose Lady Georgiana would have one.’

‘I’ll ask her, one moment gentlemen.’ She pauses, turns to Arthur and in English murmurs, ‘I keep my promises Arthur Wellesley. So keep being pleasant to Kitty.’

When she returns she finds the men arguing over a battle. At first she thinks, Oh no, the Waterloo debate has begun. Soon she realises that it’s not any of theirs but rather Caesar’s invasion of England. She guesses that it was probably the emperor who brought it up, if only to put Arthur on edge.

She takes and seat and wonders when the lid is going to blow on Waterloo and what the fall out will be. Arthur, she isn’t worried about. But one has heard that the emperor can have a temper and it can be explosive and he has made, and has no fear of making, men cry in public. Nor that Arthur would, she thinks. But all the same.

‘I’ve asked,’ she interrupts during a lull. Arthur is pouring them all another glass. It’s torrential outside. ‘She said she once did but lost it at some point or other.’

Napoleon is contemplative. He murmurs, to Arthur, ‘just so, Wellesley. Just so.’

‘Just so what?’

He smiles. Arthur thinks it charming. Ah, he goes to himself, the Charming mode has come on full force.

‘Tell me, Monsieur Wellesley, since we are apparently only _monsieurs_ to each other, what did you think of Montholon’s thesis? That the prefect art is a perfect murder? A murder that does not look like a murder?’


	8. Waterloo.

It doesn’t take much shooing from Harriet to get Arthur out of the house. All she says at breakfast is that the ladies are coming over (Mary, Albine, Fanny, Georgiana) in order to speak with Mary about her time.

‘You wouldn’t know her to be in her way by looking at her,’ she says. She noted that the woman must be, what? Five months along and looking very small for it. ‘When I was with Fanny I was huge at five months. You remember, Arthur. Kept bumping into your grandfather’s ornament statues. The ones from China. But then, I suppose everyone is different, what was Kitty like, do you recall?’

‘Can’t say that I do.’ He looks uncomfortable. Doesn’t want to say that he’d rather not hear any more about anyone’s  _with child_ moments. These things happen and then they’re over and then there’s a baby. No need to go into details.

Harriet laughs at him and, pushing him from the house, cries out ‘go, go, you stodgy old man! Go find something to do while we ladies natter about what helps with headaches and those  _terrible_ feinting spells. Ginger. Ginger is the trick for stomach ills.’ He waves his hands, fie beast, you have defeated me. I'm off. Speak no more of lace or ginger or whatever else. I am the green knight and you Gawain. 

 

 

Because weather does not desire to change itself during these dreary months there is a misting drizzle when Arthur arrives at the French house, or, as it has been locally dubbed, _le Petit Versaille_. But said, pe-titeh Ver-sai-le. Someone, probably Bertrand, had brought this to the attention of the Emperor who had scoffed. He had waved, the English! Worse at butchering a language than I am. Apparently this was an accomplishment. Albine concurred, told Arthur during a meeting once, ‘The emperor submits to nothing, least of all English grammar’.

‘Come in, come in,’ Montholon grinned when Arthur had arrived. ‘It’s disgusting outside, as usual. His majesty and Henri have been holed up all morning. Albine occasionally joins. They’re scheming.’ The comte looks pleased by this. Arthur thinks that the man is an old rogue, if he ever saw one. ‘Something about that Preston-Wright fellow who died. Albine is beside herself, she says that his majesty is finally on her side with the murder theory.’ A laugh and a rough pat on the back. Trying to be a military man when Montholon is so clearly nothing of the sort. ‘Rubbish, of course, despite my theory from last night. Up there with ghosts and the bogey man, but it keeps  _him_ entertained which is all we can ask for.’

Standing by the door to Napoleon’s study Montholon drops his voice, ‘he’s a positive monster when bored. Which has been most of the time. I had forgotten that I actually like the man until now. Your can kill the entire village if it keeps the emperor entertained. Please,’ he steps back as the door opens. Arthur glances back to the comte as he oozes down a hall. Montholon calls that he will be in his room if anyone needs him. ‘Fixing up the notes from last night’s dictations,’ he explains with a cheeky grin.

 

Enter a scene. A play, or perhaps a rehearsal for no one is in formal dress and rather than sitting there is an air of lounging. Seated at the desk is the Emperor, enthroned by books and papers, in hand is a letter and Bertrand mutters quick translations into French from it. Albine stretches herself out by the fire, a pleased cat, she blinks sleepily at him. Smiles, holds her hand out for him to take.

'I thought you were to lunch with Harriet and the other ladies, today.’ Arthur says. Albine inclines her head.

‘Oh yes, monsieur, I am. But not till a little later. I have a few minutes to spare.’

‘Ah, Wellesley,’ the Emperor is pleased to see him. He motions to a chair by the desk. ‘We were having a bit of a thought experiment this morning, or a  _Gedankenexperimen_  as the Germans have it. Albine brought it up.’

‘What if Preston-Wright was murdered?’

‘Exactly.’ Napoleon pushes the paper over to him. ‘Coroner’s report. Or, I suppose, Dr Phillips since he is the only doctor for miles.’

Arthur reads over the paper, it seems straight forward. Aloud and in French he reads, ‘symptoms exhibited before death include light headedness, nausea, general weakness, shortness of breath, loss of consciousness followed shortly by death.’ A shrug. ‘Seems like heart failure to me, or something of the like.’

Animals are a theme which Arthur is taken with and as Bertrand perches himself on the edge of his chair, tapping fingers rapidly on the desk, the duke thinks: Bird, a calm one but when startled. He reminds of a big hawk I saw once in India and that Buchanan fellow tripped over his own feet to get a look at it. By the time he was up it had disappeared. Bertrand, unaware of this comparison, continues, ‘There’s some parts missing, though. I was there when he collapsed. How it went was, he stood to take his turn. There was some dizziness, he had to steady himself on the table next to him. He gave his apologies and that he wasn’t feeling well. A bit,’ Bertrand motioned to his stomach. ‘A bit upset and nauseous.’

‘He also said he was tired,’ Albine adds. ‘Something the  _good doctor_ left out.’ She slides her legs off the settee and sits up straight, her hair is only partially done and Arthur could see why Montholon made such a jealous husband. ‘Read on,  _General_.’

Arthur glances at Napoleon who is making furious notes and ignoring them all. After a moment he sits back and accosts the paper with a dissatisfied face.

The duke breathes out, ‘symptoms after death include a greyness of extremities and… do I have to continue this? A lady is present.’

Standing Napoleon retrieves the paper, 'No, no, that was the important bit.'

‘What was the important bit?’

‘The cataloguing of the symptoms. What else was missing, Bertrand?’

‘Swollen face,’ Bertrand holds up fingers and counts off them. ‘The difficulty of breath would be better described as a slowness of breath. Weak pulse, which he notes as palpitations but isn’t accurate, and, most importantly, dilated pupils. Pinpricks. I held a candle up to his face, before he passed, and there was no change. I have seen such signs before, in dens of disreputable behaviour in Paris.’

‘Which ones?’ Napoleon snorts. ‘We have just so many.’

Albine says it before the Marshall can, ‘He means Opium dens, sire _._ ’

Arthur leans back and wonders if he should be grave or laugh. Napoleon is watching and waiting. At last, he carefully says, ‘so you’re saying that John Preston-Wright was murdered, in front of everyone, by an opium overdose?’

‘Or a morphine overdose – really one in the same when you come down to the death part of it.’ Bertrand is shrugging.

'But  _why._ ’

Seating himself Napoleon begins to doodle as he speaks. There are spider webs and ropes and tangles and brambles along the margins of illegible notes. ‘Remember last night, when I gave you my description of the man in question? And so did your, ah,  _friend._ They were startlingly different.’ He pauses. Dips his pen, continues on. ‘We had a visit this morning from the local gossip, Mrs Topsom. She was going on about something or other concerning the Vicar’s wife. I don’t recall.’ Arthur doesn’t believe this. He doesn’t say as much, though. ‘However, the conversation eventually turned to Lady Georgiana and her poor  _cousin_ who died. As it appears to be a popular subject of late. We managed to get from her that when John arrived back he did look different from what she remembered – granted she had only met him once years before. But she said it was substantial.’

Albine, ‘and she reminded me that Sir George was out of country during the six months that John was here.’

‘So,’ Arthur begins slowly. ‘The only person around who would know the man’s face was Georgiana. None of you have met him before, obviously being new to the country. Sir George, who would know his wife’s cousin, being away.’

Napoleon smiles, ‘he was due back a week after Mr Preston-Wright died.’

‘The ladies of the village had never met him or only once and it was a long time ago – so faulty memory can be put down for their not recognizing him.’

‘And war changes a man.’

Arthur nods, ‘yes. But not hair colour and height.’

‘I was merely suggesting what they might have told themselves as an excuse for not recognizing the supposed Mr Preston-Wright.’ An afterthought, ‘and the doctor’s wife thought he was a changeling or something else from your English folklore. But then, she’s a bit, ah.’

The room stills when down the hall a clock chimes causing Albine to stand, declaring that she must ready herself to go and that she will see the gentlemen later.

‘Good hunting,’ is her fare well. Her smile, feral. 

A minute passes then Arthur mutters, ‘so who the bloody hell was the man?’

 

 

 

The light drizzle had turned into a downpour by early afternoon. Arthur glowers out the window while servants provide an afternoon snack. He finds out that the emperor-general has been feeling ill lately and only wants things that don’t make him feel nasueus. Which means plain soups, simple breads, no flavour or spice.

He does offer Arthur more, ‘you can make free use of the cook. Have one of those curries you'r so fond of. Or,’ he pauses and manages to form the English words, ‘bangers and mash.’ Another pause as he thinks this over. ‘Was that correct?’

Arthur turns from the window and nods, ‘oh yes, but not for dinner. And not on a day where I haven’t had a proper ride. I want to go shooting,’ he grumbles as he sits down. ‘But the weather just wont hold for a day of it’

Bertrand, making an excuse, leaves to have a lie down and a think. Bonaparte explains that this is what the Marshall does when he has a puzzle to solve.

'In France we would find the complicated riddles in the back section of the paper and give ourselves a set time to solve them. He would always go to another room, nap, think, and come back with the answer in an hour.’ Napoleon seems to be amused by this.

‘And your method?’ Arthur asks, stirring tea, buttering toast, counting spoons and cups.

‘More erratic. But I’ll keep it to myself.’

They chew over food and the riddle in silence. Napoleon, Arthur notices, doesn’t appear to actually  _taste_ the food. He just sort of makes his way through it and when finished has a drink which is savoured.

‘It’s being kept inside for so long,’ Arthur declares. They move back to the library and settle by the fire. ‘It’s not good for anyone.’

‘There was that row – and oh yes, you're right, that's why we're all in moods. But the row, the row at the dinner.’

The duke goes very still. He can feel the emperor watching him while watching the fire. He thinks that the Frenchman, who wasn’t really French when Arthur remembers to remind himself, is treading on dangerous ground.

‘That’s Harriet’s cousin.’ He says.

‘Oh yes. But she had a fight with the man then a few hours later he dies…’ That ambiguous shrug. ‘And if he wasn’t her cousin, and she  _would_ know that he wasn’t her cousin, then who was he and why was she hiding him? And him dying so close to her husband’s return. And her making sure no one who knew her actual cousin was around, then what Bertrand saw versus what the doctor wrote in his report.’ He sighs. ‘Let us just say, monsieur, that had it been only one thing or even two. I’d write it all off. But, and maybe Albine’s love for conspiracy is contagious, and yes I am  _very_ bored, but maybe there is something to it.’

‘It’s all just conjecture. There are no facts.’

Napoleon nods, now his full attention is on the fire. ‘No, there are no facts.’

 

 

The subject turns, changes, morphs into one of childhood pranks. Napoleon, ‘when I was a lad we had snowball fights at Brienne and my side realised that we were only going to win if we packed the snow with rocks.’

‘You played dirty.’

‘I played to win.’

The subject changes. They discuss music. Arthur is keen and goes on about a recent concerto he heard in London. He explains, ‘when I was younger I thought myself quite the musician.’

‘What happened?’

‘I grew up.’

 

The subject changes. On to the colonies. Napoleon asks if Arthur has ever visited the Americas. The duke, ‘no, and I’m not sure I’d want to. Why?’

‘I’m curious to what New York is like.’ 

Oh right, Arthur remembers, brother Joseph is there. On impulse, and Arthur is kicking himself the moment he asks it, ‘do you miss him?’            

 

The subject changes. They skirt around dangerous territory. They’re talking about historic battles. Who their favourite historical figures were when they were young. Napoleon laughs and tells Arthur that he once re-enacted Shakespeare’s _Julius Caesar_ atop some library tables at school. With Bourrienne.

‘Who was Caesar?’

‘Some boy.’

‘Who was Brutus?’

‘I was.’

The subject changes.

 

 

Bertrand emerges after an hour, as the emperor said he would. He finds the two general very delicately discussing Paris. He sits down and declares that it’s a tight job but he thinks he has this one figured.

‘Look, the only way it works, with Lady Georgiana killing the mysterious impersonator, is if he was blackmailing her or had something on her. Which I can’t see. She’s married, and so far as I know, doesn’t look at her husband let alone any other man.’

Napoleon, ‘doesn’t have to be an affaire, Bertrand.’

‘My apologies, sire, but I heard that in this land either you hunt or you have affaires.’

Arthur bites back, ‘and what about France?’

Bertrand smirks, ‘we do both. We’re more able than Englishmen.’

The duke mutters something impolite under his breath. Napoleon laughs at both of them and declares that he’s going for a walk. The rain has let up for now.

‘If I don’t take advantage of it now, I’ll have not left this draughty house in two days which is disgusting.’ He motions for Arthur to follow him. ‘We’ll discuss murder. It seems the safest topic to hand.’

 

 

 

It’s a full day of tedious conversation and Harriet is ready to bash heads in. Georgiana is being distantly polite. She makes remarks about the weather that somehow come across as insulting and Harriet isn’t sure  _how_ the woman manages it. Fannie and Kitty are discussing nothing. There are words. Harriet isn’t sure an idea has been expressed yet. Kitty, Kitty, dear dull Kitty. But, Harriet reminds herself, it’s hardly the woman’s fault that Arthur is nasty to her and it’s also hardly her fault that they aren’t well matched. However, and there is the nasty little voice in the back of Harriet’s head that says, The least the woman could do is try and broaden her mind.

Albine is the only one with something interesting to say but she is absorbed with giving Mary tips on keeping Dr Phillips away from other women while she is with child.

‘I don’t think I have to worry about that,’ Mary says with a slightly pleading look to Harriet. Harriet ignores it and lets Albine continue.

‘Look, my dear, if you want to let your husband wander while you’re with child that is fine. Many women do, I do. It’s certainly less tiresome than always having him around. But dear, don’t close your eyes to it. Then you’ll only have people’s pity.’ Albine sips her tea. ‘Trust me. I’ll be one of the women pitying you.’

‘My husband is not a man who is.’ The girl is colouring. ‘Who is  _interested_ in  _that_ sort of thing.’

‘What? Sex? Do say it. You’re amongst friends.’

Harriet laughs at the twin expressions of shock on Kitty and Mary’s faces. Georgiana’s look is one of distrust. She stands, crosses the room, and places her hand on Mary’s stomach. It's quite sudden but Harriet can feel the prickling of hairs at the back of her neck, a feeling as if fingers have brushed by her. She catches Albine’s eye. The older woman looks concerned yet unsure as to why.

Georgiana leans over and murmurs, just above a whisper, her breath is brushing against Mary’s hair, ‘My dear, I  _do_ hope your child is  _healthy_ and  _whole_. May it live a  _long_ life.’

She withdraws her hand and bids her goodbye. She claims something or other as the reason for her early departure. When she closes the door there is static in the air.

 

 

There is a crack of thunder and Arthur finds himself drenched to the bone within half a minute.

‘Fine time to start raining again.’ He snarls. Napoleon laughs, declares it the duke’s fault since he wanted to go find that path to the river.

‘It’s probably impassable now, after all this rain.’

Arthur looks over and can’t read the expression on the other man’s face. At last he snarls, ‘Stop  _leering_ at me.’

‘I’m not leering at you. I’ve never leered at anyone.’ An honest think about this. ‘Except maybe the Tsar.’

Arthur tells himself not to laugh. He doesn’t listen.

With the rain in thick sheets it is hard to see. Arthur keeps his eyes on the path before him, his wet, soaking boots as they trod through mud and greying grass. It is cold and his akins aren't doing their office so the air and the chill are oppressive, bone deep, digging and shattering. He jams his hands into his pockets, they are tight fists. Rounding a bend they pass by a small thicket of trees. Napoleon stops. He grabs Arthur's arm, leans close to him but keeps his eyes on the trees to their side. Just above the rain Arthur hears him whisper, Look to your right. Very slowly. Between the trees.

Arthur turns, squints through the rain but can only see the dark shape of twisted, gnarled wood. Low hanging branches, tangles, and shadows. Then, within the shadows he thinks he sees another shadow. Something hunched, leaning over. He blinks, wipes his eyes, it’s gone and the emperor is yanking him down the road.

‘Come on, it was nothing.’

Arthur thinks, Yes, yes, it was nothing. Because weird creatures from soldier's tales don’t exist. Cannot exist. It is unreasonable. Unscientific. Un-British, even. 

Arthur thinks, But then, I trust my eyes and my eyes saw something.

 

 

After drying off, finding a spare set of clothes from Montholon for Arthur, and meandering through the house to find the warmest room, they end up in Napoleon’s study. There are blankets secured and a fire and a bustling servant who is convinced that both men are going to catch their deaths. And then where would we all be?

Napoleon is in a mood and pulls the curtains closed. He says that it was probably nothing. Arthur doesn’t comment. He sips the chocolate provided by the servant.

‘Stop pacing, it’s giving me a headache,’ Arthur mutters. A pause followed by the sound of Napoleon walking over and eventually settling on the floor.  ‘Dreadful weather.’

‘I thought we’ve gone over this.’

'You’re not emperor here, you can’t dictate what I talk about.’

Napoleon rolls his eyes, remains quiet. Arthur glares at him then at the fire then at the cup in his hand.

After a moment there is a twitch of a smile and a movement of shoulders that might have been a shrug. Napoleon murmurs something. Arthur thinks it might have been in Italian.

‘Monsieur,' he starts. 'That is, Bonaparte.’ The grey eyes are very much on him and he doesn’t want them to be. They remind him of the terrible romance books Kitty reads. With the dark haired men with the deep set, soulful eyes. Because that’s what they are and he hates them. ‘Napoleon.’ He settles on the name at last. ‘Look, Waterloo,’ he wonders when they ended up both sitting on the floor next to each other. When things as a whole got to be  _like this._ ‘It was a close run thing. It was the nearest run thing I’ve ever seen in my life.’

After a moment Napoleon murmurs, ‘tell me something about it that you haven’t said to all of London.’ They are shoulder to shoulder.

‘It was the worst battle in my life.’ He says, finally. He thinks that the emperor has a very comfortable shoulder.

‘Then we do have something in common, after all. If for different reasons.’

It’s still raining, Arthur notes. But, he thinks, it’s not all that bad after all. 


	9. Grey Women

In a cold spring an opulent Patriarch came to the humble shores of Paris. He and his retinue wore greens and reds and golds. They wore layers and layers and folds upon folds upon folds and fabric within fabric and beneath fabric and upon fabric. Silks and satins and furs and brocade. When they moved the air smelled of incense and eastern mysteries. This was still the world of werewolves and  _les dames blanches_  who haunt mountain passes and steep ravines and, as always, the land of  _les f_ _ées._  This is the world of Prestor Jon and crusades and men, on your island, who steal from the rich to give to the poor. And in our land it is a world of crumbling Medieval buildings and a half finished Cathedral.

One chronicler writes that those who gathered to hear Heraclius speak could see their breath crystallizing in the air. That the formation of these breaths represented the formation of a Christian future, a unified Christian kingdom stretching from where the sun rose to where it set.

Heraclius walked through a building that had no roof. A building that was merely stone on stone on stone with marble and more earthly materials than you can imagine. The pillars stretched up and ended starkly – reaching for heaven but never entering. The dome was the sky. The stained glass, the clouds and sun. When he spoke, he spoke of an unfinished crusade from an unfinished pulpit in an unfinished cathedral in an unfinished city.

You see, monsieur, everything about Paris is unfinished. And all who are with her, all who know her, are they themselves unfinished.

What is it, then, to be an unfinished work? 

 

 

It’s a quiet Saturday and the French are visiting Woodford House and lounging throughout rooms. They move quietly, softly, and with some form of cordial deference. It’s akin to a precise music. The gentleness of the act of rearranging themselves. The Bertrands remind Arthur of the Rosary Sonatas. Antiquated. Aching. Voiceless. Their interpretations are endless. They move with grandiose stateliness and he thinks he can see them surrounded by mirrors. But then, the mirrors and halls and halls of them were before the Bertrands’ time.

The Montholons are the aria from _Cleofide_ – light, charming, and carefully composed. They are lyrical, melodic and when Albine moves Arthur can only see the major scale. Everything she does is the  _de capo_ of the piece. Her husband is the minor moments – the dip between opening and climax. The duke thinks it fitting. They are performing at all times. They have both missed their calling.

He lingers on these comparisons until the Emperor drifts in from the music room. He is restless and glowering at the forever-there clouds hanging out the windows. He is wearing black-blue and makes Arthur think of the sea. The deep parts of cold Atlantic he had seen on his way to India. When he had been young.

He says, philosophically, to Harriet, ‘in ancient times the northern Frenchmen, or Celts as I suppose they were then, worshiped Mars.’

‘And the Germans Eostre,’ she smiles. ‘I’m not sure it’s symbolic of anything. Or ironic, given the general collapsing nature of anything Germanic at the moment.’

He chews this over and pours another cup of tea. There is a tenseness in the air. The women are worried about something but will not speak as to what. He had asked Harriet the night before, How was your meeting with Mary? And she had given him a queer look and, defensively said, Why do you ask? He had never seen her like that before. He never wanted to again.

‘It’s this dratted weather,’ he mutters. ‘Making fools of us all.’

The emperor is close by inspecting a book collection. Someone murmurs an offer of French titles. He thinks it might be Kitty. He thinks, You wouldn’t know a French title if it was staring you in the face. He glowers as she names a few and Napoleon has the nerve to smile at her.

Harriet grabs his arm, ‘come with me,’ she says. ‘We’ll go be scandalous and have a game of billiards. Come, come, Arthur Wellesley.’ She’s hissing it. ‘Before you do something you’ll regret.’ She catches the eyes of the Bertrands and makes the same offer to them. They are kind and accept.

‘I heard a story the other day, from Mrs Topsom.’ Fannie begins as the men ready the table. Harriet is looking bored as she chalks a queue.

‘Gossip is it?’ The older woman asks.

‘Sort of. In its own way.’

Harriet glances over to Bertrand and sees uneasiness on his face. Arthur is oblivious and asking how they should keep score. Harriet says to Fannie, Well, carry on then.

‘It’s a tall tale, I’m sure. But an interesting one regardless. I do ask you keep it to yourselves, though. You’ll understand once you hear it. Apparently there is a spinney near Thorpe Achurch called Ratling Irons and it’s haunted. When locals walk past they can hear screams and moans and sounds of chains being dragged along ground.’

Bertrand is very studiously chalking his queue. He is very studiously trying to hide something akin to sadness.

‘During the war prisoners were chained overnight there as they were en route to Norman Cross. While there many were terribly mistreated and died cruelly in the night. It is their spirits who linger in the spinney.’

Arthur, finally paying attention, asks, ‘what sort of prisoners? Deserters? Debtors?’

‘French prisoners of war.’ Fannie’s face is expressionless. She sort-of smiles. ‘I believe you have a game to play, gentlemen.’

Harriet thinks that she will never underestimate Fannie Bertrand again.

 

 

After Arthur trounces Bertrand twice in a row he leaves to find Napoleon. He says, when he locates the Emperor who is watching the rain on the portico, Were they close?

‘Were who close, monsieur?’

‘Our mystery man and Lady Georgiana?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ Napoleon fishes for his snuffbox and opens it. He stares at the rain then sighs and closes it. ‘The local gossip is due to arrive for dinner.’

‘Mrs Topsom?’

‘Hm. I’m sure you could pull the story from her if you put your mind to it.’

Arthur wants to ask why the other man is in such a foul mood but doesn’t. He leans against a pillar and stares out into what is becoming a misting rain.

‘It will end soon. These storms have a habit of coming in and lingering around the midlands.’

‘Whoever decided to settle on this island was a fool,’ Napoleon mutters. He turns on his heel and stomps back inside. Arthur stares after him for a moment before looking back to the lane and the gardens and the woods around them. Something catches his eye, it looks to be someone standing off to the side. Amongst the roses and hedges – in the shadows of low branches and fog. He thinks it might be a woman and for some reason assumes that it must be Mary.

Raising his hand he waves. The shadow does nothing. He looks back to the windows which are warm and soft then back to the garden. The figure is gone.

 

 

‘Oh, there are plenty of grey women in these parts.’ Mrs Topsom declares when Arthur relates the story over dinner. ‘Grey Women, Ladies in White, Red Haired Witches, Ladies in Black. If there is a ghostly colour we probably have a woman wearing it.’ She sips her wine. ‘Now, let’s see. Woodford hasn’t had a mysterious death in at least one hundred years. Well, excepting what you lot are digging into.’ She laughs. Arthur thinks she might be getting drunk. ‘There was a tale of a woman who wears black. Like the shadow you described. Though I think she’s more of a witch.’

‘The one with the lost children?’ Harriet asks. She gives Arthur a look that might have been apologetic. It also might have meant, Behave.

‘Yes, yes. The story is something my grandmother told me when I was a wee one. It apparently happened right around these grounds, so maybe she’s your mystery lady.'

Albine motions, Go on. We all want to hear it. 

Gratified Mrs Topsom settles herself, 'Well, the story has it that during the Civil War there was a local beauty with long black hair and blue eyes. Her name is no longer known, but I suppose it is immaterial. Naturally she married a local lord of some sort, no one with too big a name, but a man with land and some standing. Together, they had three children. Angelic little babes with golden hair like their and bright eyes like their mother. It seemed an endless summer. Autumn came, as it does, and the father went off to fight for the king against the roundheads. Winter came and then spring and then summer and she knew. Our woman, she knew he would never return. His helmet and sword came home but he did not. The mother was told that he had died nobly and with honour on the battlefield but this brought her no comfort. A man six feet under in cold, damp earth can bring no woman comfort. She put on her mourning clothes and despite the years passing she never took them off.

No one thought there was anything wrong, beyond her unduly long grieving, until one day their house cottage was found empty. Empty and with a thin layer of dust, speaking to it having been in such a state for a goodly while. No servants. No horses. The garden untended and the chickens and geese running loose. A search was mounted but called off due to bad weather. After the storm passed a young herder found them.’

‘The children?’ Albine asks. Napoleon looks to her, notes her smile, he glances back to Mrs Topsom who sips her wine, then to Arthur. Arthur decides that the thinks grey eyes remind him of the faie and the faie remind of things that are fantastical and he likes none of it.  

‘Yes. All three of the babes. Two boys and a precious girl. All drowned.’

‘And the mother?’

‘They never found her. She just disappeared and left behind three dead children. However, a few years pass and stories begin to gather; stories of a woman in a black dress who haunts the rivers and lakes of Woodford. She comes up to the country roads and lures travels to their deaths. Particularly pregnant women or people traveling with small children. But the thing that makes her different from other ghosts and ghouls are her legs.’ She pauses. She sips her wine.

Kitty, ‘And what is wrong with her legs?’

‘They are bent backwards at the knees. So when she walks it’s almost crab like. Demonic, some say.’

Fannie, ‘Faie-ish is what Mary would have it be.’

Mrs Topsom nods and murmurs that one of these days the faie are going to come for their Mary the same as they came for their Georgiana. Harriet says, Hush. Do not make like of poor Georgiana.

 

 

Drinks after dinner marks a change of mood in Napoleon as he eagerly slides up next to Arthur.

‘Come with me, Wellesley. We’re going to hunt for a story.’

They find the storyteller sniffing for a snifter of brandy. Napoleon explains that she will get one all to herself, and of fine French brandy, if she can spare two old warhorses half an hour of time. Arthur translates. He leaves out the “old” part of the warhorses.

Settling in the sitting room Arthur asks Mrs Topsom, ‘What, exactly, did you mean by the faie coming for Mary as they did for Georgiana?’

Mrs Topsom laughs, slaps Arthur’s knee and looks coyly to Bonaparte.

‘What are you two up to?’ She taps her glass. Napoleon obliges. ‘Ooh, that’s enough. Generous man, the emperor.  _Mon l’empereur’_ she slurs through the French. ‘Tell him that he’s generous, your grace. My French will get me to a café and half a conversation on the weather. His English is worse.’

Arthur isn’t sure that he trusts Napoleon’s claims about being unable to speak or understand English. He mutters, ‘Mrs Topsom compliments your pouring of her drink.’

‘She’s drunk.’ Napoleon states. ‘And did she now?’ He stares. Arthur ignores him, returns to Mrs Topsom.

‘We’re merely curious.’ Arthur says with what Harriet has termed “your unique Wellesley charm”. 

The older woman waves him off, ‘Tell the French gentleman that I am not drunk.’

‘She’s not drunk.’ Arthur translates.

‘Tell her that I said no such thing. Tell her that there is not a woman more beautiful than her in all of France.’

‘I’m not flirting for you.’ He looks at Mrs Topsom who is waiting expectantly. ‘The General says that there must have been a mistranslation, and that he thinks you charming.’

‘He said I was beautiful, general.’

‘He was being gaelic, madam.’

‘You’re a scourge of translators everywhere, your grace.’ She’s laughing so Arthur assumes that all is well. ‘Now, what is it that you two are up to? I’ve heard from Albine that there are questions concerning the death of Mr Preston-Wright. That he might not even  _be_ a Preston-Wright!’

‘Well, it’s all speculation.’

‘Of course, of course.’ She doesn’t appear to believe him. ‘I heard from Albine that the portrait went missing. It must be on purpose.’

‘Must?’

‘Why yes, your grace! What possible other reason could there be? But, oh, apologies, you were asking about this silly notion of Mary’s. You must know that when Mr Preston-Wright, or whoever he may be, arrived Mary thought he was a fairy?’

Arthur makes a translation and nods to Mrs Topsom. ‘Yes, we had heard something like that.’

‘Always a little addled was Mary. Though Dr Phillips dotes on her. Loves her to distraction I should think. (Even if he is twice her age).’ She muses on this thought then brightens up.

Arthur quickly amends, ‘that is, Mrs Topsom, I believe General Bonaparte and I know the gist of the story. Of Lady Georgiana going up north and coming back a different person.’

‘And how! She was sickly looking. Was ill for a few months after her return – something Dr Phillips wasn’t sure of. But then she got better. Though, I think there must have been a falling out as she and Mary, who had been thick as thieves before the event, were suddenly hardly speaking to each other. Mary didn’t catch whatever it was that Lady Georgiana had but she seemed affected by something that happened up there.

My theory, shared by those of us who know, is that they saw something. I never trusted the Highlands. Scots, bad lot all of them. I think that Lady Georgiana witnessed something and that changed her forever.’

Napoleon, through Arthur, asks ‘Do you have any idea  _why_ she went up there?’

‘Oh no. She was very discreet about it. Though,’ a hum. ‘I had heard that she was ill or some-such. Although that makes no sense seeing as Northamptonshire has the best air in the country. And when a woman is ill the Highlands are hardly the place to go.’ She finishes her drink and looks meaningfully at Napoleon until the glass is refilled. ‘There could be other reasons.’

‘Other reasons?’ Arthur raises an eyebrow. She looks coy, slings her drink back in one gulp.

‘A smart man like you should be able to figure it out. A woman leaves her husband, her friends, and travels to a part of the country where no one knows her save but for a confidant. Remains there an entirety of the year. Tell me you’ve considered it.’

‘Considered what?’

She stands, leans against the table and smiles at Arthur.

‘I’ll let you two gentlemen ponder it.’ She’s walking out and muttering, ‘and they call themselves geniuses!’

Arthur blinks, pours himself a drink, and mutters, Well that was an education.

Napoleon takes the glass from him and helps himself. ‘Well,' he hums, 'the least you could do is give me the gist of it.’

‘I think, or Mrs Topsom thinks, that Lady Georgiana was pregnant.’

Napoleon blinks through this. Snorts to himself, ‘so that’s who Mr Preston-Wright was. Former lover come back to dig up memories.’

‘They do say that old sins cast long shadows.’

Napoleon pours another dram into the shared glass.

‘Isn’t that the truth. Santé, Monsieur Wellesley.’

 

 

The evening draws out longer than expected and Arthur is getting tired of Kitty making bad decisions during bridge. He bows out of another game and takes turns about the room. Harriet thinks that the general is prowling and needs to be taken for a walk. She thinks that they all could use a walk. Excepting Mrs Topsom who is snoring gently into the settee pillows.  She thinks that this weather will be the death of them all.

‘I thought Charles was to be here today,’ Arthur grumbles as he stands behind her chair and counts cards.

‘He was. But this weather has made the roads a veritable hell, excuse my language.’ She sighs, lays her hand down and looks back to him. ‘I am sure he will be here in a day or two. When things clear up.’

‘Assuming they clear up. Look, I feel dreadful, I’m going to retire.’

She frowns but nods and waves him from the room. The Montholons are bowed together and plotting something in the corner. The Bertrands say their good nights from the card table. Kitty stands and goes to him, arms out.

‘Oh dear, it is  _such_ a night-‘

No, he thinks. No, no, no, no –

‘I was thinking, we could-’ her voice is a low, low whisper – scraping against the ground low. He says, just as quietly, ' _Good night,_ madam.'

 

 

The former-emperor is in the hall humming to himself. He is standing in front of portraits and staring up at dead eyes.

‘I am to bed,’ Arthur announces. He’s suddenly embarrassed. ‘I will see you tomorrow. For the much awaited dinner.’

Napoleon turns slowly and tilts his head to the side, ‘So early?’

‘I was making a menace of myself, I am sure.’

‘As was I.’ A slight smirk. ‘Charles, that is Montholon, was about ready to say something that might have been construed as rude.’

They are standing close. The hall is empty and dark and Arthur hates candles because they make everything look warmer, softer.

‘Should something be said?’ Arthur finally asks.

‘About what?’ The eyes are searching. Arthur doesn’t want to know what they’re looking for. He thinks that he hates this thrice-damned man. He doesn’t hate easily. But oh does he hate him.

‘About Preston-Wright.’

‘And what,  _monsieur,_ present conjecture? A series of coincidences? Flights of fancy?’ He takes a step forward. ‘You, yourself, said that there were no facts. We are making, how do the English say it? A mountain out of a mouse hole?’

‘Mole hill. A mountain out of a mole hill.’

A smile. Arthur just, just, just  _justs_.

‘Ta, that’s it. It’s still early, why not have one last drink. Is there a ridiculous saying you English have for this?’

Arthur thinks it very hot in the hall. He says, ‘it’s a nightcap. A nightcap, yes that’s what they’re calling it now.’

‘Hm,’ the emperor, former emperor, steps aside. ‘Shall we?’

They find the library and Arthur mutters that Charles usually keeps something half decent in here. Something sweet or something smoky? Or maybe something peaty – what do you want?

‘Sweet.’

The room is warm but Arthur stokes the fire regardless, if only for something to do. He finds a port, it’s not traditional but will have to do.

‘I’ve been doing brandy all night and can’t handle scotch right now. So, port. Drink of men, I hear.’ He turns about, warming his hands, the back of his legs. Napoleon is sitting and watching. ‘There’s a saying, you know. Claret is the drink of boys, port is for men. But if you want to be a true hero, you must drink brandy.’ He thinks on this. ‘So I suppose we’ve been heroes all night. It  _was_ an awful lot of brandy. Though Mrs Topsom helped herself. I do hope Harriet is letting her sleep it off here. Never a bad thing to have an extra person down at breakfast. Distracts Kitty.’ He moves about. He knows he is still being watched. ‘This is a damned business, you know. A damned nice thing.’

‘You said that about Waterloo, I hear.’

‘Did I? I probably did.’ He sits, finally. ‘Do you stare at everyone so?’

‘Am I staring?’

‘By God you are. All the time. It’s dashed rude.’ Arthur sighs. Sits back. Runs a hand through his hair. He thinks that the former-emperor half-smiles at that. ‘Now you’re making me sound like a caricature. God I hate you.’ He stops. Scowls. ‘Excuse me, sir. I’m rather gone. Excuse me, I will leave you - ’

‘Wait.’ Arthur is standing and glaring. Napoleon is looking mild and unimpressed. ‘Sit back down. Finish your drink.’ Arthur complies. He thinks that he shouldn’t have. He finds himself settling next to the other man. They clink glasses.

‘It’s Kitty,’ he explains. ‘She always makes me anxious.’ A sip. ‘Why am I telling you this? I barely know you. What’s it been? Four days?’

Napoleon muses on this. He sips the port. Sets the glass down, fidgets with his snuffbox. Finally he says, very slowly, ‘I think some would say that you know me the best out of everyone.’

‘Because of –‘

‘Of course.’

‘That means nothing.’

Napoleon gives him a look out of the corner of his eye. Arthur cannot read it.

‘Maybe. To some.’

The duke sighs. He moves his hand, it hovers in the air between them then settles back down. He drinks his port. There is a clock down the hall that chimes for nine and Arthur thinks, It  _cannot_ be that early.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Napoleon states suddenly, sharply. The fire crackles. Arthur feels a hand on his leg. It’s very warm, he thinks. Napoleon, Arthur thinks, has surprisingly delicate hands. Arthur continues to think, I shouldn't be thinking these things. There is one on the side of his face, thumb brushing over his lips which is followed by the emperor’s and he tastes like alcohol. Port, yes, but underneath it something else. The dusky, smoky after taste of scotch. Expensive scotch. From Islay. And also brandy. Of course the brandy. Arthur feels himself being pushed back into the canapé, the pressure of another body leaning into him. Part of him is remembering how to do this so he’s kissing back. Another part of him is reciting every single law they are breaking and is reminding himself, yet again, that no, he never once thought that men playing rugger was attractive. That no, he never once thought that maybe this man might have been the worse thing to happen to Europe but God he has  _eyes_.

Their noses are bumping and occasionally teeth because the position is awkward and one is trying to remain composed and the other is trying not to laugh. Arthur pulls away, he hisses that they  _can’t._ Napoleon replies that they already  _have_ so why stop? Arthur is kissed before he can think of a reason. He has many, he knows, but he will list them in a moment. Unlike the man kissing him, he does have some manners. He’s not a horse, though he may have been born in a stable.

They part a second time. Arthur finds his hands in Napoleon’s hair. It’s very soft. They are sort of half off, half on the canapé and there is a leg between his thighs, he thinks that this could be dangerous. He slides his hands from the other man’s hair to chest and pushes, muttering, ‘this is going to stop now.’

A knock at the door jars both of them and they are apart faster than Arthur has moved in a good long while. Napoleon is standing by the window so the duke can only see his back, military straight. He knows that the man is searching the rain and the darkness and the shadows.

‘Arthur, dear?’ It’s Kitty. He wants to strangle Kitty. He hopes someone will kill her for him so he won’t have to turn into the next Georgiana. He quickly changes the thought, tells himself that it was unfair.

‘Yes?’ He opens the door and stares.

‘Do you know where the General Bonaparte is? He’s requested by the Comte de Montholon.’

Arthur steps aside and watches, but doesn’t watch, Napoleon cross the room. The general stops in front of Arthur and hands him the port glass. Their fingers touch.

‘Until tomorrow, then,  _monsieur._ ’

Arthur gives a mock bow, ‘until tomorrow,  _monsieur._ ’

When the general has gone Arthur wanders back to the fireplace, sets the glasses on the mantle. He stalks over to the window and stares out into the night. His eyes are playing tricks on him but he lets them. He sees the woman in black again. He sees a hunched figure. Watching. He understands, then, that what the general is always looking for are the old demons that seem to follow him wherever he goes. Arthur knows that if they follow you long enough they eventually become your friends. For they, above anyone else, know you the best.


	10. Falling Softly

They arrive home close to midnight with the moon finally peeking its way over fog and cloud. Arthur is in a bother and snapping at Kitty until she retires near tears. Harriet, before he can snarl at her, holds up a hand and declares that she knows  _not_ what got into him but she is having  _none_ of it.

‘Good  _night_ , sweet prince of Waterloo.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

She tries to be coy. ‘What? Sweet prince? But, my dear –‘

‘Prince of Waterloo.’

She starts. He’s furious at the fire. He’s jabbing the log then goes very still, trying his best to resemble a marble bust.

‘Arthur?’

‘Good night, Harriet.’

 

 

It’s night. Late. He starts awake. There is a receding shadow in the corner of the room, by the door. He remembers a woman in black standing behind him when he first arrived to Woodford. A half awake part of his mind says, But Arthur, that was just Lady Georgiana.

It’s late. So late it’s almost early.

He had dreamed. Of course. In it there had been a scene presented to him. Napoleon had been standing in the middle of a field. Of Waterloo. Dead horses and men and dogs all around. And Waterloo had been under the vaulted ceiling of Notre Dame and it had been unfinished – the battle, the building, the imperfectly dead surrounding them. Napoleon had asked, How would you kill me?

And Arthur was wearing the king’s colours and holding the king’s colours and the sky was bleeding the king's colours and Arthur with all of this was standing in the middle of the aisle. They were facing each other. Arthur by the door. Napoleon at the nave. Far away in Notre Dame, very close at Waterloo.

Arthur answered, I would kill you boldly, but not wrathfully; I would carve you as a dish fit for God.

Napoleon then held up a hand a said, Our hearts see you not. Here didst I fall; and here my hunter stands, sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe.

When Arthur wakes he says to the cool night air, that dimming shade in the corner, O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth.

He tries to sleep, drifts off to the murmur of, Thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords in our proper entrails.

 

 

The morning breaks and Harriet finds Arthur in the library reading  _Julius Caesar._

‘Feeling better?’ She is serious when she asks. He looks up, raises an eyebrow.

‘Have I been otherwise?’

‘Cry havoc, let slip the dogs of war.’ She says it with a laugh.

He turns a page, mutters, ‘words written by a man who has never seen a battle in his life.’

‘Kitty is still sore. You  _were_  brutish last night.’

‘Hang Kitty.’ Standing, he sets the book aside and brushes from the room. Harriet lets him alone, knows that when he wants to be a monster he can be worse than the reputation of that Scourge of Europe he tries so hard to hate.

 

 

‘Why don’t you go for a ride?’

Arthur is prowling in her office. Has been for an hour and a quarter. She is jabbing her pen at him, ink flicks off, lands on the floor. He stares at it. Looks up to her pinched face. 

‘And go where?’

‘The moon? North Africa? Go visit the French. Conspire with them to ruin my cousin’s reputation. You know, I have no idea what you all are going on about with murder and Georgiana. It's disgraceful.’

‘I’ve no desire to see  _him._ Any of them.’

Harriet sits back, twirls the pen between fingers. Ah, her face says, Now we’ve come to it.

‘What has he done?’ She motions for Arthur to sit. ‘Has old Boney been beastly?’

‘He’s always beastly.’

‘Stop fidgeting.’

‘How do you know when you’re being had? When you should tell a man, “pull the other one, for it hast bells upon it”?’

Harriet hates and loves it when Arthur is vulnerable. When he is looking at her as if she holds the answers. It’s the same look Charles gives her. And Robert, once upon a time. She thinks that he is the great Duke of Wellington, that he cannot be being had by a former Emperor. She thinks that they’ve already had their little battle and didn’t Arthur win? This, she suggests to him. He snaps his fingers and sits back.

‘Harriet, darling, my queen, you’ve got it.  _La dernière bataille._ That’s what this is.’

‘Will you two always be fighting?’

The question appears to stun him. He says, ‘well, yes. I’m a general, he’s a soldier. It’s what we do.’

 

 

An invitation arrives to a light lunch before the (much anticipated) dinner. It’s for Arthur and from an illegible name that might have been Napoleon. It also might have been from a mysterious man named Nfulto.

Arthur declines.

An hour later he retaliates with an invitation for a walk.

Napoleon declines.

Then comes an offer for pre-dinner drinks from, apparently, Montholon. It is written in similar phrasing to the emperor’s first invitation.

Arthur declines.

He waits then suggests maybe the two parties gather and head over together.

“Montholon” declines. Montholon’s usually meticulous handwriting is suddenly illegible.

Arthur spends the rest of the afternoon laughing to himself and humming.

‘What song is that?’ Kitty asks as she trails after him in the garden.

‘I believe it’s Vive Henri IV. Not sure where I picked it up.’

Kitty says, ‘it sounds lovely.’

They part ways.

The day wanes and he spends an hour waiting for the ladies to be ready. He stands in the hall and ponders the history of baroque music and the invasion of Rome by the Visigoths. He thinks, Well they aren’t so much as different from the Goths on the whole are they? Or are they separate? I cannot, for the life of me, remember. Etruscans. I think they’re important somehow. No, they’re long before any of this. _Italians._

He thinks about the Franks and the Ptolemy family in Egypt. This is dangerous because it makes him think about Alexander and Caesar so he moves away. Onward into the Renaissance and Petrarch and Polliziano and Medici and Borgia and Orsini. He stays on these thoughts for the longest.

When Harriet and Kitty arrive his expression can only be described as brief relief. He offers his arm to Harriet and declares it is time for them all to climb Mont Ventoux. 

 

 

 

 

Lady Georgiana is a wall of black but more so than usual. She is chiffroned and laced and veiled. She has layers and layers and moves with a rustle that sounds to Arthur like cobwebs. He chides himself for being  _romantic._ That is something one of those  _poets_ would think. Though he will allow that the lady is as welcoming as a slab of marble.

‘She knows about the rumours,’ Harriet hisses as she passes by Arthur and Kitty. ‘Mrs Topsom is hardly discreet.’ She moves off to join Sir George. He is looking choleric and troubled. Mary is feint, a whispering shadow on Dr Phillips’ arm. Then enter the French who are late but not too late. Albine is a show as she nods to Mary, beams too brightly at Georgiana, and exchanges a look with Harriet. Arthur decides that she deserves a symphony, that woman. Fannie is more subdued. The men are seemingly un-phased.

Arthur believes, firmly, that the thrice double damned fates must hate him when Napoleon catches his eye, gives him what can only be described as a predatory smile, and begins a slow stalk towards him through the room.

‘You were intractable today,’ the former emperor says. ‘Normally you’re rather eager to come.’

Arthur does not choke on his drink. He does set it aside, however.

Napoleon continues, ‘of course I am sure you are a  _very_ busy man. Far too taken to attend to our little matter.’

‘Our matter?’

‘The mystery, of course.’ There is a raised eyebrow. ‘What else is there?’

The duke wants to say, You’re demonic. By Jove you’re the worst of the worst. You’re the bloodiest, most god-forsaken, silly, frustrating, arrogant, obnoxious man that I know and  _somehow_ when you smile I seem to think that these antics are all right. It is un-English! 

The duke instead says, ‘Ah, yes, that.’

Napoleon smiles.

Arthur thinks it might be genuine. He also thinks that the room is very loud. Suddenly.

‘Albine informs me that the spring has sprung in regards to our lady in black. Madam Topsom has spilled all vis a vis the suspicions of poison. Quite scandalous, now that it’s all not-quite-out-in-the-open. I marvel at how you English manage the balance so stoically.’

‘If there’s a scandal it’s all your doing.’

‘ _You’re_ hardly innocent.’

‘I’m going to make your life doubly miserable if Harriet harps for even one minute at me.’

They move off to a window. For once the sky is clear and there are stars and a moon which reminds Arthur of galleons. He hopes that perhaps the storm is done but then, remembers, that he had dreamt of a shade just the night before and such things are omens. If one was inclined to foolish beliefs.

The shade in question is explaining that Bertrand has sent to London to a friend who knows about medicines and poisons and how one is usually made to be the other in such cases as these.

‘It’s really for his own curiosity, of course. Since this is all conjecture at the end of the day.’ A pause. A thoughtful look. ‘ _What_ did happen at that ladies gathering? They’re eggshells around each other.’

‘Couldn’t say. Harriet’s been mum about it.’

‘And your wife?’

‘Haven’t asked.’ He’s vague and waves for a drink. The former emperor snorts and looks out to the garden. Arthur can see no shadows within shadows and wonders if Napoleon’s looking for those old companions.

Arthur asks, ‘are you really so keen on this because you’re bored?’

For his troubles he receives a sharp glance before grey eyes are back on the window. Again and again and always seemingly searching. Or, perhaps, looking through. Perhaps there is no garden but something else. Parisian boulevards; the aisle of a cathedral; the expanse of a battlefield; Provençal mountains or Tuscan hills. Or, maybe, because the beginning of life links with the end, the crash of waves on a Corsican shore.

Or perhaps just a garden.

‘There’s not much else to do here.’ A quiet answer, spoken to their reflections. There is candlelight and so everything is so, so  _soft._ A pained look crosses Napoleon’s face but it’s vanished before Arthur truly recognises it.

He wants to tell the man that he cannot have this knowledge. These moments. Neither of them can. That Arthur has spent too many nights waking up and thinking of the dead. That Arthur has seen too many great men fall. And now, now he doesn’t really want to see any of what is happening. Because this is a soft, gentle fall. It’s a slow killing. That he doesn’t like seeing this man, this once-upon-a-time Scourge of Europe, falling quietly. For fall he must but shouldn’t it be loud and flashy and with a bang? Waterloo was a catalyst and in a novel that would be the end but life is not a well structured narrative. Life allows for the end of greatness to be gentle. Allows for the end of life to be willing, with no fight, no last act of valour to save the vanishing passion which someone like the emperor _must_ have had. Life allows for the loss of everything one ever held and then the continuation of that bone deep, never leaving pain of knowledge that what you once had is never returning. 

Arthur wants to explain that he does not want to see it. Any of it. And he wants to ask, Does it hurt? Do you feel that hollow that must exist after such a ripping and sundering of existence? Do you hurt? He finds he sort of does and does not know the answer but is fine with the grey. And that smile.

The dinner bell rings.

The room snaps. Napoleon is suddenly staring at him and leering.

‘Come, now,  _monsieur._ No more of this sad reverie. The first act is about to begin.’

Arthur snorts, mutters under his breath, ‘you’re incorrigible.’

‘That’s why you like me, Wellesley. Don’t lie. Ta! I think you almost smiled, there. I’ll get you yet.’

 

 

The first toast of the evening is made to ‘my dearly departed cousin, John Preston-Wright.’

There are lulls and bridges and eventually the conversation drifts over to children and Fannie lights upon the happy subject of names for Mary’s soon-to-be.

Dr Phillips laughs, ‘ah, you found my wife’s favourite subject. We have lists and lists scattered about the house.’

Harriet asks, ‘any favourite? I’ll admit that I’m partial to good English names. George and Harry and Robert.’

(‘Harry?’ Napoleon hisses to Arthur. ‘As in?’ He motions to his hair.

‘Stop being deliberately obtuse.’

‘I’m being no such thing.’)

Fannie says that she’s much the same as Harriet, but for French names. ‘Though, maybe for the next one we will give him an English name.’

Harriet laughs, ‘oh yes, do! And something to annoy  _his majesty_ over there. How about “Arthur”?’

‘ _Harriet._ ’

Napoleon deadpans, ‘oh madam, if that is the case I will make sure it is known that the little Arthur is my favourite. If only to confound future history books.’

There is a general cheers to confounding the history books, led by Sir George who declares that they’re all bunk anyhow. Whig propaganda through and through, the lot of them.

‘How about something classical?’ Georgiana’s voice is so low that the table is forced to silence. ‘Helen, if it’s a girl.’

Albine sighs, ‘oh yes! Helen of Troy, who was so beautiful.’

‘And who died so tragically.’

Albine’s smile falters. She says, ‘well that’s just the story. And it’s hardly relevant to the child. Why, if we were all condemned to the fates of our name sakes, the dear Duke here would be pushed out to a lake on a boat in a sleeping-death until England needs him most.’ Kitty says something about Arthur not being able to sit still long enough for that.

Arthur adds, ‘and I’ve never been fond of boats, either. How about Edward for a nice old English name?’

‘Guinevere,’ Harriet suggests. ‘I’ve always thought it a beautiful name. A bit long, though.’

Albine waves her off, ‘a name needs to be long. There should be enough space for the child to grow into a man.’

Sir George gruffly makes a toast to growing up, albeit everyone in the room is done with that bit. He amends it to growing older, whether it is desired or not.

 

 

The guests move to the parlour after dinner with Lady Georgiana declaring that they will do things the French way, in honour of their guests.

‘No sulking with your cigars,’ she says to Sir George in what Arthur assumes she meant as jest.

Fannie takes to the piano-forte and plays through a few songs as drinks are served and entertainment discussed. Georgiana makes a suggestion of Lonely Ghost.

‘You may have it in France,’ she turns to Napoleon. ‘Perhaps, Murder in the Dark? Wink Murder? Well, never mind, we shall explain it. It’s a rather simple game but good fun. We must assign a murderer in the group, secretly, by drawing on a deck of cards. I have it ready here. Whoever receives the queen of spades is the murderer.

Once this has been established we go about discussing any old thing until the murderer strikes.’

‘Sounds terribly morbid,’ Albine murmurs to Harriet. The older woman chuckles and says that it isn’t as bad as Bullet Pudding which combines England’s two favourite things: public humiliation and live ammunition.

Georgiana continues, ‘the murderer kills by making eye contact and winking at their victim. The victim must count to ten before feigning death.’

Albine asks, ‘how dramatic can we be?’

The lady of the house frowns, ‘do try and contain yourselves. When someone thinks they have solved it they can stand up and say “I accuse” and they must ask for a second. If someone joins them then they point to who they think the murderer is. If they are correct the game ends, if they are wrong they are both murdered.’

‘Can we discuss theories?’ Bertrand asks. ‘Conferring is normally done during criminal investigations.’

‘Yes, well, this isn’t a fully re-enacted criminal investigation.’

Albine is cheerful, ‘we could make a narrative! Who wants to be the inspector? The duke has a stern profile and a keen mind. Your Grace, you are the inspector.’

Georgiana holds up her hands, ‘that is not how the game is played. Please, madam. And to answer your question, monsieur, no you cannot confer with compatriots. The goal is for the murderer to murder as many people as possible without getting caught.’

Napoleon grins, ‘but the murderer can lie, right? If asked.’

‘No.’

‘But no murderer would admit to having killed someone.’

‘They must tell the truth. That is how the game works.’

Napoleon turns to Arthur and mutters, ‘doesn’t seem very logical to me.’

‘Just play along,’ Arthur replies. ‘It will make the lady happy.’

The former emperor holds up his hands and says, Sure, sure. He was just curious.

 

 

The first to die is Montholon who gives a rousing performance of being stabbed. Albine is delighted and the rest of the French party duly entertained. The next is Sir George who, from the depths of his cognac, declares ‘and lo, Caesar is dead’. Albine asks, ‘Can’t you give us a performance? I’ll accept only three or four stab wounds out of the sixty.’ Fannie swats her and tells her to behave. Napoleon laughs and informs Arthur that this is Albine without wine. You don’t want to see her with it. Albine declares that his majesty shouldn’t be so cruel.

The next happen in short succession. Kitty goes with a stunning gunshot to the head followed swiftly by Bertrand who accuses Fannie and dies by poison. He says, as he takes his seat, ‘opium overdose, if you must know.’

Georgiana is about to say something when Napoleon interjects, ‘was this the game being played when Monsieur Preston-Wright died?’ He is feigning innocence, Arthur can see it.

‘Yes,’ Georgiana answers. She purses her lips. Her fingers are laced and very still in her lap, half hidden in the black folds. ‘When he passed away. He was about to accuse the murderer.’

‘Fascinating.’

The group is very still. Montholon is keen eyed, Bertrand is impassive. But an interested impassive. A practiced impassive. Arthur is watching Napoleon who is smiling at Georgiana.

‘But I believe I interrupted one of our ghosts,’ he blinks, looks away and the room relaxes. ‘Madam Wellesley, you were discussing a new exhibit in London?’

Kitty is flustered making her cheeks more red than usual. Her hair is quivering, Arthur thinks the wig too large and her makeup too gauche.

‘Oh yes, of course, your majesty.’ A sly look to Arthur. Napoleon smirks between them.

The night eases on.

 

 

They end the night with chocolate. Arthur finds himself being cornered by the emperor and thinks that he has hardly spoken to another person, Harriet being the obvious exception.

‘I never finished the story about the patriarch visiting Paris,’ Napoleon murmurs. He’s sitting low in the chair and watching the group with hooded eyes. Arthur wants to say that he looks tired. The moment passes and he brightens up, ‘come over tomorrow. I’ll finish the story for you.’

‘I thought you said things from Paris remain unfinished.’

‘Never listen to what I say, I usually don’t mean it.’

Arthur smirks. He wants to take the smirk back but can’t. ‘And what you just said now?’

‘Oh God, especially now.’

‘And –‘

‘Arthur?’ Kitty again. Arthur looks over with an expression that is clearly asking,  _what?_ ‘We are leaving.’

‘So soon?’

‘I’m not feeling well.’

Napoleon stirs, suggests that perhaps everyone should be shifting.

‘It’s only half ten. Is Harriet keen on leaving as well?’

‘I believe so. She said something about work in the morning.’

Arthur snorts, That the woman  _always_ has work. The shadow cabinet member Lady Arbuthnot.

‘I can drop him off,’ Napoleon says suddenly. He sips his chocolate. ‘You are on the way home. It won’t be a matter at all.’ His hands spread. ‘There, all are happy.’

Albine saunters over to the small group, ‘a secret meeting I see! Your majesty, what are you planning?’

‘The abduction of a duke. Care to join?’

Arthur makes a face. He opens and closes his mouth before settling on a scowl.

‘Of course! I’ll get Charles and Henri. I’m sure we can manhandle him into the back of the carriage.’ She leans forward and pats Arthur’s hand. ‘You’ll have a grand time! Why, I practically did the same with Charles and we ended up married.’

Napoleon is laughing, he is saying that such a story is  _hardly_ fit for public consumption. ‘There,’ he declares. ‘Now you have two tales to listen to.’ He turns to Kitty who is looking prim but underneath it Arthur can see tendrils of amusement. ‘Don’t you worry, madam, we will have your dashing husband safely back to you.’

‘Very well,’ she looks between them all; gives Albine a smile and a kiss good bye. Arthur stands, grants the required exchange before settling back down.

‘Well, now that that’s over, what is your master plan?’

‘Master plan, Wellesley? Where would you get  _such_ an idea?’

 

 

 

It’s a bottle of wine that does it. Napoleon is explaining a tale about a gargoyle from the Notre Dame, or was it a Corsican witch who dances during lighting storms? Regardless, it reminds Arthur of ghosts and shades and dreams and he says, ‘I think we were quoting Caesar last night.’

‘Were we? Do you confess so much? Give me your hand-‘

‘Well, it was in a dream. And there was something about a bleeding piece of earth.’

‘So you were Marc Antony! Interesting. And who was I?’

‘Caesar.’

 

When it begins they’re halfway to a bedroom and Arthur know,  _knows,_ that this is too public. That walls and floors and ceilings and windows and doors and bushes and grass and trees all have ears and eyes and mouths. They whisper things and those whispers grow till they drag you down and you look up at former friends who say to you,  _O pardon me thou bleeding piece of earth_. This doesn’t stop them. Though it ought to have.

Arthur acknowledges that only one of them has anything more to lose. The other has lost it all. He doesn’t go much farther down that lane. It makes him think that his beautiful England has got to be the worst prison of them all.

Napoleon cups the side of his face and orders him to stop thinking so much. You English never let yourselves feel anything. Stop analysing it.

Arthur says that this is not strictly true. That he feels plenty. He just may not let others know what he is feeling. He says that a certain Frenchman he knows, on the other hand, certainly makes sure that he feels little, if anything.

‘That is different.’ The Frenchman doesn’t explain how.

 

Arthur decides that he likes dark eyes that could be very light if outside. But at night with only candles and a fire they’re very dark. They make him swallow. The smile is something like sin.

He has never considered himself an overly Godly man. He has never spent much time remunerating upon his (presumably) many sins. He has never pondered the word of God outside of the required hours on Sunday. However, he has never considered jumping headlong into hell before. Assaye and Waterloo excepted.

 

He has never done this before though understands the basic mechanics. They’re half naked and he hadn’t realised how sensitive necks can be. Oh God, oh God, oh god no, oh yes,  _yes._ God no he hadn’t realised  _at all_. And the feeling of hands groping through breeches, very hungry, very wanting, very needy. He is being tugged forward, they’re at an awkward angle on the bed. He briefly notes that everything with them always seems to be awkward angles. He briefly notes that he sort of likes it.

They are kissing. It’s fervent. They miss occasionally and teeth hit. There are fingers in his hair, he misses them gripping his hips, his legs, his ass. He wants them back but doesn’t know when, how to ask. Instead he kisses some more.

 

When one of them moans (he can’t tell who) a wall is shattered. Clothes are off but there are sheets, because despite the summer, it feels cold and damp. The effects of a week of rain and little sunlight. Arthur gasps, ruts forward with fingers digging into Napoleon’s arms. One of their hands is between them. Arthur thinks that this isn’t far off from Eaton, to a certain extent, except it’s less overwhelming. When all is said and done. Because everything is less overwhelming when you’ve marched armies across Europe and are left to an island to rot and retell the glories of your last battle.

He thinks, Well, at least there are two of us left to rot together. Governments never know what to do with warhorses once the war is over.

 

Skin is salty and the room is now very warm despite the earlier chill. Arthur is tracing the former emperor’s hip and on up. There is a mouth on his chest, those hands are pressing along his back, over his thighs, his buttocks – feather light. He grunts, jerks his hips forward.

A clock chimes down the hall. It is two in the morning. He thinks that he needs to go home. Or at the very least, to another room.

Instead he bites back a moan, dives for those blasted, ever smiling lips – then. It feels like they’re fighting, like they’re struggling, but then Arthur feels like it’s too – too – too  _much._ And then it is. And it’s quiet. And the room is very warm.

 

Arthur says, ‘I told you we English feel plenty.’

There’s a mumbled reply. It’s mouthed into his shoulder. It might have been in Italian, or rather,  _Corsicano_. Regardless, Arthur doesn’t understand. He repeats his statement.

‘Apparently,’ is finally replied. It’s muffled but Arthur will take it.

 

Napoleon makes a movement and some excuse that sounds a bit like a dismissal from the room. Arthur decides that it is too cold in the hall to leave. He says so. He adds, with a quick smile, Besides, don’t you like me?

There is silence for a moment. Arthur is suddenly tense. The former emperor rolls over and gives him a long look.

At last, ‘as you said last night, we barely know each other.’

Arthur shrugs, ‘where else do people begin?’ 


	11. Sir Gawain, Brother of Mordred, Traitor to the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birth. Death. Rain - probably, the countryside is drowning.

It’s raining when Arthur arrives back at the Hall the next morning. He has his coat buttoned up high and wears a scowl Harriet hasn’t seen in months. In years, even. It comes up when impudent people ask about Assaye and cannot understand his disinclination to speak on the subject ad-nausea. 

‘Dratted weather,’ he snarls. ‘This damned, nay thrice-damned weather. I hate it.’

Harriet gives him tea and sits down next to him. She adds extra sugar to her cup and stirs it in. She waits then stirs against the current.

‘We were worried about you.’ She finally says.

‘I’m sorry, my dear. I was held up, then the rain started.’ He stops. Sets the cup down and looks at her intently. ‘ _I’m_ _sorry_.’ She reminds him that she is no confessor and he no penitent and it was only he was gone all night with nary a note. I'm sorry, he repeats. The apology scatters between them. Lies upon the floor, ignored. She leaves to do work. 

  

Arthur takes himself to the library as the noon bell rings and fidgets with the books. He takes down a copy of the letters of Heloise and Abelard, flips through it, reads a line here, a line there, puts it back.

‘I’m going to do some work for the cabinet,’ he tells Harriet once he has skimmed an entire bookshelf and raised havoc with the staff. She says, Sure, if it will make you sit still for ten minutes. You can go over the letters Charles sent before he left Town.

‘When is he do to arrive?’

‘I don’t know. I heard from our cook that the roads south of us are still impassable. I fear he’s going mad cooped up in an inn. The two of you cannot abide lost time.’

Arthur, ‘good. The sooner the better.’ He stomps out of the office with the letters in hand and demands tea from the first servant he sees. Harriet finds Kitty, takes her aside, tells her that her husband is being  _horrible_ today and what can possibly be going on to cause such a fuss?

‘With Arthur, I hardly know when one mood is worse than another.’

Harriet throws her arms up and disappears back into Charles’ office. She makes damn sure to lock the door.

 

 

By three Kitty is ready to knock heads together, Arthur has re-read every letter sent from government and redrafted several proposals only to burn them all. Harriet, in turn, has ignored two offers of tea and toppled a waist basket.

It thunders outside.

Kitty paces. She watches the road and tries to ignore the itching of her skin, this sticking feeling that hovers right under her breast squeezing her heart and making the beats feel hollow. The rain is softer, drizzling, and forcing dents and rivulets into already saturated ground.

She tries to read but tosses the book aside after a few pages. She tries to sew but the stitches are uneven so undoes them all and leaves the fabric in tatters on the floor. Finally, there is a knock at the front hall. A bell ringing. That sticking feeling tightens.

‘Madam, you are requested to attend Mary Phillips,’ a servant says with a bow. ‘She requests you and Lady Harriet on account of her husband being away.’         

Kitty gathers herself up, she declares that she will get changed at once and to tell Lady Harriet that she best put on a frock that can get dirty. That the storm is finally breaking.

 

The Phillips’ garden is darker than usual. There are more stretching, aching shadows. More little fairy circles of mushrooms, bent bows, groping, growing vines. Harriet and Kitty are quiet as they make their way to the house, the ground sucking at their muddied shoes. Inside there are no lights. It is dark. It is cold. Out of the corner of her eye Harriet sees something take shape. A crouched, waiting, shadowed figure. She rings the bell and steps back to wait.

 

 

Arthur demands of the servant, Where have the ladies gone off to?

‘Mrs Phillips’, your grace. They were told it was urgent. I think it has something to do with the baby.’

‘It’s not do for another while yet, surely?’

The servant shrugs. He says he wouldn’t know about any of that except that the Missus does declare that Mrs Phillips’ gets up to no good out there, all alone, in that house of theirs. That the Missus does declare that something witch-y happens out there and maybe once, years ago, something witch-y _happened_ and then Lady Georgiana went up and away and came back. And then Mr John went up and away and ne’er came back.

‘The cousin?’

‘Oh, yes your grace. But I apologise, my wife-‘

‘No, go on.’

‘You see, Mr John that came back wasn’t the Mr John that went away. My wife knew the Mr John that came back. She used to char for Lady Georgiana, back years ago. And she did declare that the Mr John that came back was actually a Mr Heath of London who was no proper gentleman but the posh ladies always seemed keen on him anyhow. And Lady Georgiana was very, very keen on him.

But she was married, you see. So the doctor’s wife did some magic to make Mr John, or Mr Heath-as-was, go away. Next month there’s war declared and off all the young lads march. Then they go up to Scotland and do heathen things in the north and come back not talking.’ He shakes his head. ‘What I’m saying, your Grace, is that it’s all happening again, but only a little different.’

Arthur laughs, it’s mirthless, ‘only no one’s died this time.’

The servant shrugs, ‘Mr John died, your grace. Or, Mr Heath, rather. Mrs Phillips cursed him, it just took a while to take effect.’

‘Witches aren’t real, man.’

‘No, your grace, of course not. But the Missus thinks so. And Mrs Phillips  _did_ make the evil eye at Farmer Becker last winter and then all his cows died. On account of them being cursed.’

Arthur stares. He throws his hands up and declares the country side more mad than he last remembered. The servant only says that these are things as they know them. And would his grace like some tea?

 

 

Harriet steps into Mary’s room with her face set. Kitty is beside her and looking calm, collected, expectant, even. Albine and Fanny are in the room and wiping down the woman’s face. Albine snarls that no doctor should leave his wife when she’s in such a condition.

‘He’s gone off to another patient,’ she explains. ‘Then her pains started-‘

‘Too early,’ Fanny interjects.

‘Yes, and there’s no one here but a young maid who ran mad to our house. Scared my husband half to death as she just stormed in and started gibbering that her mistress was dying.’

Kitty has left the room, Harriet can hear her down the hall asking for linen. And hot water. Lots of both.

‘Why didn’t she go to my cousin? Georgiana is closer.’

On the bed Mary stirs, she whispers something, fades back into unconsciousness.

Albine and Fanny exchange a glance. Fanny, low and soft, says, ‘the girl seems to think that her mistress is being poisoned. Which is why the baby is coming so early.’

Harriet nods. Nods and carefully takes her hat off and sets it aside with her shawl. She swoops a few strands of hair back and pins them into place. Her lips are a thin line. Her eyes are calm. Albine just smirks.

Harriet, ‘and who does she believe is poisoning Mary?’

Neither answer. But there are pointed looks.

 

 

By five Mary is screaming and Kitty is yelling, ‘have none of you ever helped birth  _anything?_ ’ They are silent. She throws her hands up and declares that the countryside is worse than she remembers.

‘All right, Harriet, help me get her on her hands and knees. The baby is turned around the wrong way. And I need light. Albine, bring me as many candles as you can find. Take them all, we need them.

Fanny, I need you to boil more water. Get the girl to help you. This child isn’t going to come out on its own.’

When it’s just Harriet and Kitty in the room the older woman murmurs, ‘I have never seen a birth this bad before.’

Harriet marvels that she seems to know what she’s doing. ‘Not that I wouldn’t know what to do,’ she amends. ‘But you seem to know it all so well.’

‘Yes, well. No one’s ever asked, have they? Help me keep her conscious. I need her to push. It’s always, poor Kitty. Married miserably to the glorious duke of Wellington. Don’t think I can’t see the pity.’ She curses under her breath, lights another candle. ‘We’re only going to be able to save one.’

 

 

They have taken every light Albine and the kitchen girl can find and the room is warm and golden hued and red and shadows are flickering. Sometimes Harriet catches sight of a crouched figure outside of the window. She thinks that she cannot be going mad. Not right now. She can later, in forty years. When she has children to take care of her and is at an acceptable age for senility.

Albine comes in holding lavender, ‘my mother swore by it to ease birthing pains.’  She hangs them from the bedposts, the walls, throws some on the fire. The room smells like summer in Provence after a battle.

‘Who has smaller hands,’ Kitty demands. She is trying to turn the baby, Mary is delusional and calling out to God to take her and the witch. Take them both. For killing her baby. ‘Albine, come here. Your hands might be able to fit. We have to turn the baby or both will die.’

Fanny and Harriet are holding Mary up on her hands and knees as she sways. She is trying to fall sideways but Kitty orders them to keep her up, at least until the child is turned. Then she can lie down and the birth will be easier.

‘I think I have it,’ Albine grits between teeth with lips pale white and face without colour. ‘Yes, yes I have it.’

Kitty is next to her, urging Mary to push. To push and to breath and yes, yes, we’re almost there. Just a little longer, dear, you’re doing wonderfully. Wonderfully.

Outside it’s raining and Harriet wonders who is watching the house.

 

 

The baby is delivered by eight and Kitty quickly wraps it in clean linen, rubbing its back, keeping it close as she stands by the fire. Mary is asleep, exhausted, and with all appearances barely registering what had happened.

Kitty looks down at the child, swallows, looks up. Calmly she tells Harriet to come over. They both look at the child. Albine and Fanny join. There is silence.

Carefully, Kitty pulls a cloth over the child’s face and sets the lifeless form in a chair by the fire.

‘What do we do?’ Harriet asks. They’re all looking-not looking at Mary. Harriet is reminded of the Holy Family and laughs. Albine shrugs, Fanny is uncertain.

‘We tell her?’ Albine suggests.

‘Is that kind?’ Fanny asks.

There is more silence.

Finally, Kitty draws herself up. She says, ‘nothing of this leaves the room. Give me the child.’ She takes the bundle and walks over to the fire. ‘Harriet, do me a favour and go tell the girl to make some tea for us all. Also, have her prepare a light meal for her mistress. Albine, please go and send a message to my husband, have him come here directly. Fanny, please take these linens and dispose of them in the kitchen. The girl will know what to do with them.’

Kitty is standing by the fire, as she gives the orders. She is not looking at them. She is looking at the covered bundle in her arms. She is all red and white and there is blood on her cheek. She wipes at it absently as the other women disperse. When Harriet returns with the tea and a bottle of brandy Kitty is by the bed. The baby is no where to be seen.

 

Albine sends for Arthur and for the French gentlemen. They arrive and are greeted by grim faces. Harriet is not looking at Kitty. Fanny is withdrawn, more quiet and sombre than usual. Albine is a battling ram with her jaw set and eyes making Arthur think of glinting quartz. Kitty is something he hasn’t seen before.

‘She’s not well,’ Harriet begins. ‘Mary, that is. She lost the child. We don’t know where Dr Phillips is or when he will return. Nor does the maid.’

Arthur asks if they’ve checked his diary. They have, there’s nothing.

‘She had best be left in peace for the moment,’ Albine is leading them to the parlour. ‘But we thought that she would feel better knowing there were people in the house in case something should happen.’

Napoleon frowns, ‘what, exactly, is she worried about?’

‘It’s more the who, sire.’

The women leave. The men pour themselves some drinks and decide to not talk about the situation. Instead, Bertrand opens up a deck of cards.

Outside it’s raining. Arthur thinks he can see someone in the shadows.

 

 

‘A nasty business, this.’ Napoleon says when Bertrand and Montholon have taken themselves off to the doctor’s study.

‘Quite.’ Arthur pulls the curtains closed and leans against covered window pains.

‘When are you and your wife returning to London?’

‘Next week, I should think. We’re waiting for Charles to arrive then I think we will get back. I have some things to see to.’

They take sips of their respective drinks. Arthur wants to ask if the emperor, former emperor, saw anything on the ride over. Anything hiding in the shadows of the garden. Anything lurking on the paths, hidden in darkened corners and beneath swooping branches.

Instead, ‘how was your day?’ is asked.

‘Quiet. And yours?’

‘The same.’ He plays with his cuff, absently. The emperor has very grey eyes. Very grey eyes and an unreadable expression and a half-moon smile that could mean everything so all Arthur wants to do is sort-of punch the man in the face. He reminds himself that he is no longer a lad and things cannot be solved by socking a damned impudent man across his damned, smug, smirking damnedly damned face.

‘What are your plans for tomorrow evening?’

He means to say that he is very busy. He means to say that the other man shouldn’t be so obvious. Instead he says, ‘I have nothing planned.’

‘Come over,’ Napoleon is already turning away. Drifting towards the door. ‘Once more, before you leave for London.’

‘Where’s your shadow?’

That half-moon smirking, smug, damned smile. ‘Oh, him? He’s easy enough to avoid, should I wish it.’ The door is half open. ‘Tomorrow at seven.’

He’s through to the hall and all Arthur is left with is an unfinished thought, half a sentence, and a memory that makes him think of summer and warm Mediterranean air.

 

 

When Mary wakes she asks to see her child.

‘It was lost,’ Kitty says with the woman’s hand in her own. She isn’t sorry as she says it. All women have lost children. ‘I’m very sorry.’

Mary goes very still. She asks, barely audible, ‘was it a boy or a girl?’

‘A boy.’

Harriet looks up with a warning written across her face.

‘Was he handsome?’

Kitty nods, ‘yes, very. Like your husband. He came too early.’

Mary looks at her for the first time. Her eyes are empty. ‘You’re lying,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t hate you for it, Lady Wellesley. I know you’re doing it out of kindness. But you’re lying. You’re not very good at it.’ A shrill laugh. ‘Don’t have affaires, you wouldn’t be able to keep it from your husband.’

Harriet is glancing between the two women. She is tense, ready to move.

‘I will keep that advice in mind.’ Kitty says. She is still holding Mary’s hand.

‘My child. Tell me the truth.’

‘He didn’t look human.’ Kitty draws in a breath. ‘Had I not been there I wouldn’t not have believed him to be from you.’

Mary is nodding. She is smiling to herself. Yes, yes, she says. Of course. Thank you.

‘It’s only fair, you see.’ She takes Kitty’s hands up, clasps them close and stares into the older woman’s eyes. ‘It is her revenge. She blames me for it all. And this is her revenge. When she laid her hand on my stomach she cursed my child. That woman is a witch.’

‘Who, Mary?’

‘Why, Georgiana of course.’

 

 

Harriet finds Arthur in the parlour looking glum.

‘I told Mary that we’d stay until her husband returned.’ She sits heavily. Arthur reaches over but she pushes him back, shaking her head. ‘Kitty is still with her. It was a boy, you know. She said, had he lived, she was going to name him Gawain. For the luck of the name. But then, she said, maybe she should call the boy Gawain regardless, for wasn’t he the son of a witch and brother to Mordred who was the traitor to Arthur.’ She sighs. Closes her eyes, wills her hands to stop shaking. ‘It’s all nonsense, of course.’

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘No,’ she shakes her head. ‘No, nothing else.’

 

 

By midnight Bertrand says that it’s high time someone goes out looking for Dr Phillips.

‘He left in the morning, surely he ought to have returned by now. And regardless, Mary needs him.’  He is pulling on his coat and hat. Fanny gives him a kiss, orders him to be safe. He smiles at Arthur, ‘she’s the only one, other than the emperor, who is allowed to order me around.’ He shakes hands with the men, bows to the women. ‘I’ll hopefully be back with the doctor, if not, expect me for breakfast with some news either way.’

 

 

By two Arthur finds himself dozing in the doctor’s study. He wakes with a blanket over him and a pillow beneath his head. Harriet entres with tea, she smiles, it’s the first one he’s seen all evening.

‘Thank you for the pillow,’ he murmurs as he sits up.    

‘I didn’t bring that for you.’ She places the tea at his elbow. ‘It must have been Kitty.’

‘Kitty hasn’t done that in years.’ There is a feint smell of lemon, of bergamot, of jasmine. It reminds him of someone else. He doesn’t say this, just shrugs. Says that the night hasn’t been an easy one for them.

‘Mary’s finally asleep again. Albine gave her a bit of laudanum to help. She and Fanny retired an hour ago.’

‘Bertrand still out?’

She nods and leans against the desk. Arthur hasn’t seen her this exhausted in years.

‘Montholon also retire?’

‘Yes.’

‘The emperor?’

‘No. But I heard from Albine that he doesn’t sleep much. He’s like you, I think. Finds too many demons in the dark.’ She leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead. ‘I’m going to sleep. Kitty is staying with Mary. Hopefully tomorrow will look brighter.’ At the door she pauses, turns and asks, ‘did you see anyone when you arrived?’

‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘Well, I thought I had-‘

‘In the gardens? A sort of dark figure?’

He nods. Harriet thinks this over before giving a shrug.

'It’s probably nothing.’ She yawns, gives a small smile over her hand. ‘Oh, and Arthur, could everyone  _please_ stop this nonsense of vilifying my cousin.’

‘Of course, I’ll tell the French to stop treating the English countryside as the imperial court. Think no more of it.’            

‘Thank you.’

When she leaves the room seems darker. He pulls up the blanket and settles in for an uneasy sleep. 


	12. A Half-Movement. In the minor scale.

Morning is meek and mild. The house smells of coffee and toast and citrus. Arthur pauses at the citrus. Citrus is Spain and battles and India and miserable letters home to his brother and Woodford and something he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

A slow, thoughtful walk takes him through grey halls to the kitchen where Harriet and the maid are burning sheets. He can spy blood on the linen, on Harriet’s hands. There are thoughts of the night before that make him swallow and he is not man who swallows easily. Harriet says, without preamble, ‘she’s asleep.’

‘Who’s asleep?’

‘Mary. Bertrand got in with Dr Phillips around four or so. He hasn’t left her bedside.’

‘The others?’ He looks at the burning linen. Harriet looks at him. The maid looks anywhere else.

‘Distinctly not eating breakfast in the parlour.’

‘I think I might join them.’

‘Yes.’

When he leaves the kitchen all he can hear is a low keening sound from down the hall. It’s haunting. It’s the calls to prayer from Minarets. It’s low chants in Cathedral halls. He remembers, once, saying to Gordon that he understood why people in the Colonies were so keen on Catholicism. That it held something haunting in the way their pagan gods of the forest were something haunting. Gordon makes him think of Waterloo. He wrote to Gordon’s brother about a horse.  _A horse._ In the way that he is sure Harriet is writing to Charles about the weather.

‘I need to leave this damned place,’ he says to no one. The hall is empty. There is the smell of coffee and toast and he knows that no one is eating it. There is the smell of citrus and the low, haunting, keening cry of someone who has lost something and they cannot think how they will ever go on.

The cry makes him think of Waterloo. Of Assaye. He stalks past the parlour and into the gardens.

 

 

‘You couldn’t stand it, either?’ Bonaparte states. Arthur, for the first time, notices that the man is in civilian clothes and his old grey coat. That famous one. It’s weather stained and patched and he can see a burn mark or two. The duke can feel the muscles in his neck, his shoulders, he’s been tense for easily twenty four, forty eight hours.

‘No,’ he replies.

‘Coffee?’

There’s a cup between them. It’s sitting on a garden wall and the emperor, because damnit Arthur knows that the man will take that title to the grave, is in shadows beneath a willow tree.

‘Don’t think I can right now.’

‘I thought I might. But,’ Napoleon shrugs.

‘Last night, I fell asleep-’

‘In the study, yes.’

‘Ah.’

There is coffee between them. It is still steaming. Napoleon takes half a step forward and Arthur can see his face because it’s now in the weak morning light and the man looks like he hasn’t slept.

‘Your hair,’ Arthur motions to his brow. ‘It’s sort of sticking up.’

‘The revenge of the armchair I dozed in.’ Napoleon tries to flatten it but it refuses. There is a sliver of a smile across the duke’s face. ‘Don’t laugh at me, monsieur.’

Arthur is very grave. ‘I would never dare.’

There is coffee between them. It takes Napoleon half a moment but then he suggests, ‘how about we share? I think it might be necessary.’

‘Don’t think I can right now.’

‘Just a sip.’

‘Last night –‘

‘You looked uncomfortable.’

The cup is passed over. Arthur accepts.

 

 

‘You mentioned that you played violin when you were young,’ Napoleon says as they drift inside. They have spent the morning avoiding the others and each other and the garden and the house and the sun and the shade. Arthur thinks he hasn’t spent a day like this in  _years._

‘Did I? Oh dear.’

‘Do you still?’

‘ _Hardly_.’

They are in the kitchen and the fire has gone cold. There are remnants of rags in it. Napoleon is staring at it and Arthur is wondering what memories are there for the other man.

‘I had thought,’ Napoleon begins. ‘When Marie-Louise went into-‘ A flash of a smile. Arthur waits but there is more. They turn and leave the kitchen.

 

 

The keening is gone and the house is silent. They find Dr Phillips in the study with a bottle of Scotch. He is smoking a cigar and staring at the desk in front of him.

‘Sir,’ Arthur says softly. ‘Do you wish for peace? Or company?’

There is no answer for a long moment. Dr Phillips pours himself another glass and snubs about the cigar.

At last, softly, softly, he says, ‘she is mad with grief.’

Arthur is in the doorway, there is no light in the hall but he can feel Napoleon’s presence behind him and knows that the man is still in shadows. Waiting. Watching. Not understanding but understanding because some things are universal.

Phillips continues, ‘she blames Georgiana. She blames the faie. She speaks in gibberish and I cannot understand a word of it.’ A drink of Scotch. ‘I fear she may do self harm.’

Arthur glances back and Napoleon gives a half shrug.

‘She is mad and there is nothing,  _nothing_ I can do about it.’ Finally Phillips looks up. ‘I love her and yet I  _cannot save her._ ’

‘Maybe she needs time-‘

‘I’ll be alone now, sir. Thank you for all you’ve done.’

Phillips crosses the room and, without looking at either man, closes the door. There is a sound that might have been a sob. It might have been a cough. But as they enter the parlour Arthur isn’t sure he heard anything at all.

 

 

‘In Corsica there are people you can go to in order to ensure the birth of a child,’ Napoleon is explaining this as they saddle horses. Everyone is leaving and few are speaking. There is sun in the sky and it is making this all into a tragi-comedy which Arthur finds distasteful.

‘My mother once referred to them. She didn’t say much, but then she had lost children before Joseph was born. And she had just said that for family some things are necessary.’

‘Necessary?’

The emperor shrugs. ‘We have a different relationship with birth and death on Corsica, I think. I remember once, a neighbour died and my mother helped to wash the body. Everyone stood around it and the room was dark but for a single candle and the women would scream and tear at their hair-‘

‘Sounds barbaric.’

‘They felt that it honoured the dead. And if you honoured them well enough they would guide you through the remainder of your life. But beyond that,’ another shrug. ‘We’re not ambivalent but we’re not…as upset by it. It’s difficult to explain.

But to ensure a child – there is the saying that there must be a life for a life. Of course, I’m not sure how literally that is taken in the case of childbirth.’

‘ _Corsica._ ’

Napoleon laughs. It’s the first one Arthur has heard in a while and he thinks, Maybe, maybe the sun is all right.

‘Have I told you about  _i_ _mazzeri_?’

‘No…Do I want to know?’

‘Of course. Though, I hope you don’t have a fondness for wild boar.’

‘Beyond eating, not particularly.’

They were passing through the gate, behind the carriages containing the others, and with poor  _‘tonio_ behind them, when there is a scream. Arthur stops, turns his horse around to see Mary in the middle of the garden with her hair in tangles and clutching at her belly. Dr Phillips is running up to her saying something but all Arthur can hear are the woman’s screams.

The screams and screams of ‘it was  _her_ , it was  _her_  the woman in black. That  _creature_ took my babe. That  _creature. Creature. Creature. Creature._ I should have killed her – That – that – that _thing_ \- she took my boy, my boy, my boy -‘

And Dr Phillips is pulling her back into the house and not looking at any of them. When Arthur finally turns his gaze back to the emperor he thinks that this must be the first time he has ever seen Napoleon Bonaparte so utterly speechless.

            It is sunny as they ride to Woodford House. And it is silent.  

 

 

Everyone is invited in when they arrive and soon a light repast is prepared but not eaten. Kitty picks at her food and appears disinclined to look anyone in the face. Harriet and Albine huddle with whispered conversations before breaking apart bearing the appearance of disinterest.

‘I think I should visit Georgiana,’ Harriet announces at last. She says that it will do everyone good to not dwell on the previous night. ‘I’m sure Mary will be well presently and everything will be as it should be.’

Kitty is quick to agree, she says that it might clear her head to go out. ‘I’ll come along, if you don’t mind.’

Harriet smiles but it’s tight. She agrees but it’s not gracious. Kitty doesn’t appear to care.

The French murmur and confer and Arthur hears something rude in the emperor’s private mix of  _Corsicano-_ French that only Bertrand appears to be able to understand. At last Albine declares that they all had best head back. That perhaps they had overstayed their welcome with all and yes, a break was in order.

Kitty turns to Arthur, ‘will you come with us to see Lady Georgiana?’

‘No, I think not. Not at this moment, at least.’

‘Then you will be alone,’ Kitty reaches for his hand. He reaches for his tea. They miss each other in air.

Albine shakes her head, ‘oh no. He will come with us. No one is allowed to be alone right now. You will play chess with my husband and trounce him.’

Montholon is dry, ‘my dear, I’m not sure I am grateful for you foisting all these chess aficionados on me.’

‘Foisting? His majesty already lives with us and besides the emperor you have been playing against no one that I’ve seen.’

It is settled before Arthur can get a word in and he finds himself back under afternoon skies and listening to a story about dream hunters who battle on mountain tops.

 

 

They are opening a bottle of wine and there is a fire because it looks like rain. Again. At least we had a reprieve for a day, Arthur says. Napoleon mutters that nothing in England is a reprieve.

‘It is raining all the time and when it is not raining there is fog and where there is not fog Englishmen are going about killing each other or driving each other mad. It is a wonder this nation gets anything done.’

Arthur pours two glasses. ‘Wine?’

‘So early?’

‘I feel it is a day for it.’ He takes a sip. ‘Could have used some last night.’

‘I thought that topic was on hold. At least till there is sun out but because this is England that means it will be on hold forever.’

‘You’re in a mood.’

Napoleon says nothing to that. He sulks over the wine and watches the fire and is restless. He explains that he hates waiting. It’s why he hates peace so much. Because it’s the wait before the next inevitable war. The calm before the storm. Which is the worst sort of calm.

Arthur says he can think of worse. Napoleon bets that he can’t.

They brood over wine.

 

 

Albine passes through at some point. She says the duke is becoming a regular fixture and soon they will have to find someone new.

‘Someone new, madam?’

She laughs, ‘for his majesty. He has the attention span of a child.’

‘Only when bored,’ Napoleon mutters. He murmurs, to himself, that the last week has been a pleasant change of pace.

‘I don’t mean to shoo you away.’ Albine’s hand is on Arthur’s shoulder. She is slender and beautiful and Arthur does understand Montholon’s jealousy. They are going to tear each other apart, he knows. They are the sort to flare out sadly, slowly, but tragically nonetheless. They are the sort to suffer from the fate of loving without being aware that they are loving.

She flickers from the room. She takes the remaining light with her.

Arthur pours more wine. Napoleon seems disinterested. The emperor says, ‘it is just like us. To be bored by this peace.’

‘I never said I was bored.’

He receives a look. He decides to sip the wine instead of replying.

 

 

At seven a servant makes a suggestion that food might be an idea. Arthur agrees though Napoleon waves the offer off.

‘Not been too hungry lately. Tell me, why did you stop playing the violin?’

‘I realised what a foolish lad I was.’

‘That is not a reason.’

‘Ask another question.’

They brood over cheese and cold cuts.

 

 

After another half bottle of wine the duke mutters, This is folly.  He mutters, You’re only doing this because you’re bored.

The emperor corrects, Was bored. This past week has been a decided improvement.

The duke shakes his head. Somewhere in the house a song starts. Someone is at an instrument and the music makes a winding trail to the library. It’s secretive. It’s slow. The emperor turns to the duke, with that smile, that one that is like a lone candle in the dark room. The emperor holds out his hand and offers a dance. But only if the duke doesn’t mind following.

The duke feels like he has been defeated. He feels like he has been run over by columns of French soldiers and all he can hear are the drums and drums and drums. He feels like  _la dernier bataille_ is somehow over.

            The duke says, It would be my pleasure.

 

 

When a rider comes from the Preston-Wrights declaring that everyone must come. That the doctor has gone mad. That Lady Georgiana is in fear for her life. Arthur can only wonder what took it so long to come to this.


	13. Pale at the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A folding in and holding on. And, at last, an ending of sorts.

Fanny declares that she has had enough of all of this for a lifetime. That she has had enough of England and the English for a lifetime. That she will stay here. Short of going home to France it is the best option. Albine shrugs, ‘I’ll bring back the gossip. Only fitting that  _both_ husband and wife go mad.’

Arthur asks Napoleon, ‘do you believe in ghosts?’

Napoleon shakes his head, ‘I’ve never seen a ghost that has scared me yet.’

‘I still don’t know if half of those tales you told me are true.’

‘I believe that is the point.’

 

 

Abelle Hall is in an uproar when they arrive. They follow the shouts and find Dr Phillips standing over a resilient Georgiana. He is saying that she has driven his wife mad. She was fine before Georgiana took her away to Scotland.

‘Whatever happened there damaged my wife!’ He snarls. He is jabbing a finger in her face.

Arthur goes to Harriet. She says, softly against his shoulder, ‘Sir George is out, thankfully. He’d call Dr Phillips to a duel over this.’

This is something Arthur cannot imagine Sir George doing. Harriet seems to sense this. She amends, ‘well, there’d be a lot more yelling to be sure.’

Dr Phillips turns to the new guests, his finger is still pointing at Georgiana who is becoming increasingly upset. Phillips growls, ‘this, this _person_ did something to my wife and now she is undone.’

‘Your wife was always crazy,’ Georgiana hisses in reply. She is a sea of black. She is a sea of red. The room is all colours. It is very white around the edges, the lady of the house is dark, the doctor is all green, Harriet and Kitty are golden, the Emperor is greys and blues, Montholon and Bertrand are browns. Everywhere there is red. ‘Your wife was mad. Has always been mad. Even before Scotland-‘

‘I’ll not have you speak of my wife-‘

‘She killed my child!’

White. The room is very white.

‘She killed my child and you  _dare_ to call me a _person._ You dare to insinuate that _I_ am a witch! In Scotland – I was,' she takes in a staggering breath. Then sags. 'I was there to give birth. I was with child, Henry's child who you all knew as John, and felt that it would be best if no one knew. So I fled to a distant relations who are almost no relation and took Mary with me. I had thought her a friend. At the time. But then, when I gave delivered of my babe I know as God sees me, _I know_ I heard my baby scream. I heard it cry. It was  _alive_ and I could see it moving. But then, Mary and the midwife are telling me no. That it is dead and neither will let me see my child. Wouldn't let me  _hold_ my child. Wouldn't let me know its face saying it was _the best_ for me. Ha! _How_ would she know? She who had never even had a child. I was kept in bed as they went about burying it - my child. I couldn't even attend the funeral. I was made to sleep and rest. As if that would make me better.

'When we returned here she took to haunting me. Using her leeching witchcraft to ruin me. To bring Henry back though I was so sure a French bayonet had taken care of him. And oh, good  _sir,_ I’ve seen her in the forests at night. A creature stalking through the branches. Thin, pale with dark hair. Only your wife fits that description! A creature that has been following me since Scotland!’

‘My wife-‘

‘Your wife,  _sir!_ ’

White. White. White. White.

God above. Now - Silence. So very silent. It begins to rain. Arthur finally allows him to think, ‘ _finally_ we have the storm.’

‘And your supposed cousin? John is it? Or is Henry more accurate?’ Phillips hisses back. ‘Did you kill him?’

The woman in black goes still. More still than before. She is a statue. She is a carved beauty that is pure wrath. She is a goddess provoked.

‘John, that is Henry, died of heart failure.’ Her voice is porcelain. Thin. With decorative etching that might be hysteria. ‘ _You_ diagnosed that.’

Phillips shakes his head. Oh no, he says. Oh no, no, no. Sure, to not cause scandal I did it. Out of love I did it. ‘I thought my wife had,’ suddenly he is blue. He is breaking away. He is turning to the window. To Arthur. To Bertrand. To Montholon. To Kitty. ‘I thought my wife had. She had shown signs. I know you all think I was oblivious. I was not. She had shown signs before he arrived. But then she went on that John was a changeling. And if you want to get the real person back you must kill the changeling.’

‘Your wife killed him.’

Bertrand laughs at this. Stops. He takes Fanny's hand. Harriet sits down and pours herself a stiff drink.

And now there is silver threading through the room. Lady Georgiana is still sitting with back straight and eyes like fire.

‘He was poisoned,’ Phillips declares. ‘That man, whoever he was, was poisoned. I thought it had been my wife and to protect her I said nothing. But now,’ he turns back to the lady of the house. ‘But now I am not sure. Now I think you are nothing,  _nothing_ but a vicious harpy. What shall I tell your husband? My good friend? That his wife is a vicious creature that should be locked up? That his wife cheated on him with some man who came back masquerading as her cousin and they got up to God knows what below his very roof? Because that’s what happened wasn’t it? You and him while George was away? And who knows who else.'

‘That’s enough.’ Kitty stands. A sharp movement shattering the threshold of whatever it was they had all been pressed against. She says to Dr Phillips, ‘your wife suffered a tragedy, doctor. And for that I am the most sorry. More sorry than I can say and I know that sorry will never be enough because words will never be enough for this, but throwing around  _baseless_ accusations-‘

‘Kitty,’ Arthur starts.

‘ _Baseless_ accusations will not help anyone.’

‘ _Kitty_ -‘

Harriet kicks Arthur and gives him a look.

There is silence. After a moment Montholon steps forward and says, ‘Well, that was  _fascinating._ Anyone care for a drink?’

 

           

Formality takes over. A servant is summoned and tea ordered. Someone goes and finds Sir George’s stash of liquor and brings it in. Harriet is pouring rounds for everyone and making the tea stiff.

‘I think we all need a drink.’ She says. ‘Or three.’

‘I think we all need to get drunk,’ Albine corrects her. ‘For the next week at the very least. It’ll be like the coronation, but with more death and skeletons falling out of closets.’

In an aside to Arthur Napoleon wonders how this bears any resemblance to his coronation.

There are whispers. There are theories. There are looks. Lady Georgiana stands by the window — a dark shade against white curtains. Against pale walls and white-gold furniture. She looks like a painting. Like a poem. Like a fable. Byron would immortalize her before she burned herself out. 

Harriet takes Arthur to another room. She sits him down and pours them both another glass of whatever is strongest to hand.

‘It’s like this,’ she explains. ‘When we all went to Mary’s earlier this week. When it was just us women — you were with the French, I think.  _Conspiring_. Well, Georgiana came over. And she said something very particular. She put her hand on Mary’s belly and said that she hoped the baby would be healthy and whole and long lived.’ She pauses. ‘It’s the way she said it. And everything felt sort of queer afterwards. There was an energy in the air. La how I hate subscribing to flights of fancy and things that are illogical but it has stayed on my mind. And then last night, with the baby being stillborn. I could have sworn I saw someone or something in the gardens. Sort of waiting. You thought you might have seen something, too.’        

‘I’m sure everything can be explained.’    

‘Yes, quite probably.’ She stares at him. She can read minds when she stares like this. ‘When Kitty told Mary about her child being stillborn Mary said that Georgiana had cursed the child. Who made the child look as it did.’

‘Look as it did?’ He nods. Oh, yes. Quite. I understand. ‘Harriet, you mustn’t let Mrs Phillips get to you. I cannot think her sane.’

‘Of course.’ Harriet finishes her drink. She doesn’t look convinced. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Shall we?’

        

When they return to the others they find Georgiana gone. Albine explains that she went for a walk. That she needed air. That she would be back presently.  

           

Presently turns into an hour. Montholon makes a table for bridge. Albine, Bertrand, and Harriet join.

 

Presently turns into two hours. Napoleon and Arthur play through two games of billiards. They end in a tie of one to one. They agree to let the third match rest until a later date.

 

Presently turns into three hours and Dr Phillips has paced a hole into the front hall and the servants are getting nervous. Bertrand grumbles that he didn’t come to England to go on endless searches through the soggy countryside for lost citizens. He offers to take a horse and go looking for her.

Napoleon says he’ll come along, if only for the air. Would the duke care to join? The duke cares to. Montholon jumps at the chance to have a ride and soon the four are out and on the road.

They split into pairs. Bertrand and Montholon in one direction, Napoleon and Arthur in another. The duke wonders when such a division became natural. It’s only been a week, he thinks. It’s only been one hell of a damned week.

 

‘Did you ever see that thing again?’ He asks as they leave their horses tied to a convenient post and continue through brambles, and snarling branches on foot. There had been signs of recent passage off the road and into the forest. ‘The one from Italy?’

‘Here and there. Thought I saw it in Russia.’ A sharp laugh. It’s like cold wind. ‘Hardly surprising. You know, I do seriously doubt she came through here. If we're having difficulties in boots and proper coats then she would have been stopped ages ago.’

Arthur points to broken branches, to smeared mud. She could have, he says.  _Someone_ came through here. The press further in. It feels cold. A bone eating cold. A cold that is shattering. Seeps into your body and devours your marrow and your sense and your remembrance of warmth. Ahead, Arthur can see Napoleon shiver. The emperor mutters something about disliking the cold. It is the first words either of them have spoken in a while.

What is around them but gnarled trees, stunted branches scratching at their arms and faces. There are only colours of the most base of elements, that of earth. It reminds Arthur of Waterloo and how the field had been mud and mud and mud afterwards. There is something behind them, he becomes convinced as they walk on. He scratches the back of his neck. If he turns around he will see it and it will see him and then what? They will probably die. Alone. In a godforsaken never ending forest that certainly is not on any map of area Arthur had seen. 

‘We should head back.’ Napoleon stops to stretch. ‘I think we’re getting no where.’

‘You’re probably right.' 

They wait for a moment. Oh God, oh God, Arthur thinks. It is right behind me. Was that something on my back or a branch? What did the emperor say that one dinner? Shadows upon shadows and eyes that are pools of darkness and you cannot see it truly unless it smiles then all you can see are its teeth. 

They turn. There is black. Black within black. The duke wants to believe that it’s the woman who has been haunting them, that it’s Napoleon’s creature. Instead, it’s a dress. A dress in shreds. Upon a branch. Somehow, they missed it when they walked by. 

Somewhere in the forest there are eyes watching them. They can feel them. Napoleon has a pistol out, frees the dress and hisses ‘make for the trail we were on and go without looking back.’

Arthur thinks that some forests have eyes. Some trees and plants and bushes and dark places know how to catch you and keep you and never let you go. In day light, he knows he will think it all rubbish. At the moment all he wants is to be every far away from where they are presently.

They run.

 

 

‘We couldn’t find her.’ Arthur finishes lamely. ‘Only her dress.’

No one asks any questions. No one asks why all the men have freshly fired guns. No one asks why the dress is in shreds but there is no blood. No one asks why it is so cold. Why everyone is so, so cold. No one asks.

They wait until Sir George returns home and Harriet and Arthur takes him into the library. Twenty minutes pass. They come back out and suggest that maybe it’s time for everyone to retire. It’s late. It’s past midnight. That they’re lucky they found anything in the dark.

At the familiar crossroads between houses Arthur kisses Kitty on her cheek, pats Harriet’s hand, and tells them to go on. He’ll be home soon. Then maybe they can all head back to civilization.

 

 

 

 

 

‘When I met you, in person, I wanted to hate you.’

They are sitting in front of a fire. It’s two in the morning and Napoleon suggests maybe sharing a blanket might be an idea since Arthur hasn’t stopped shivering since they returned from the search for Georgiana.

‘Most people want to hate me.’ The emperor is equivocal. ‘Some actually do manage it. Shall I give you some tips?’        

‘It might be an idea.’

Napoleon tuts. ‘No, no. I think not.’ They clink drink glasses. ‘What time did you promise to return?’

‘Soon.’

‘So open ended.’

 

It doesn’t take a bottle of wine, this time. This time Arthur remembers what to do a bit more clearly. He still thinks they shouldn’t.

Because of who they are. Because the walls have eyes. Because there’s a letter in his coat pocket from Charles saying that Parliament wants to have more watch dogs on old Boney. That parliament wants to have the useless, sad sod Hudson Lowe up there to keep an eye on things. Because they are both men and all of  _that._ Because of Waterloo. Because Arthur spent his career training himself to think the worst things of the man currently underneath him and he wasn’t doing a very good job with all of that at the moment. Mostly because thought was difficult.

It doesn’t take a bottle of wine, this time. Somehow, it’s both better and worse because of that.

 

           

‘When are you leaving for London?’

‘Soon.’

‘So open ended.’       

There is a question. Lingering, half formed, between them. Finally, because he is the more brash of the two and reminds Arthur of fire, Napoleon asks, ‘will you be back up to this miserable corner of the world any time soon?’

Arthur manages a gruff, ‘if I need help solving another ghost filled mystery.’

A smile. It’s one the duke hasn’t seen before. He kisses it away because it’s something he doesn’t want to see again. Because of everything.

‘Well, you know where I live.’

It’s absurd. So Arthur lets himself laugh. There is sun, slowly peaking over the horizon. And the emperor doesn’t try to kick him out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me as I slowly transferred this over from Tumblr! I hope you enjoyed! Stayed tuned folks, there might be another. I know many of you are aware of "Little Birds" which is on Tumblr, that one is on a half-arsed hiatus at the moment. I've a story in my head for the lads but it involves more ghosty spooky magic things and less Pride and Prejudice references than "Little Birds". 
> 
> Woo!


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